I Could Die for the Words that You Say
by Ramarama
Summary: A collection of oneshots taken from the course of Race and Spot's relationship. Contains wit, insanity, angst, fluff, tears, fears, laughter, hott men, pointless drabbles, really great writing, and most importantly, lots and lots of Sprace. NEW AGAIN!
1. I Never Imagined I Could Be

A/N: Okay, well. Here goes another story - but this one will be better not only because the chapters are shorter, not only because it doesn't really have an all-encompassing plot, not only because I can write a chapter in whatever my mood is at the moment, but because it can bea completed story at any given point. Yay for one-shot drabble collections!

That's what this is. Every chapter is going to be an isolated scene occuring at one point during the timeline of Spot and Race's relationship.

WARNINGS: The usual vices, nonlinear timeline, occaisional fluff or angst, lots of slashiness, moodswings.

So enjoy, and please review, because I really like this story.

* * *

Central Park was beautiful in the snow. Central Park was beautiful in the moonlight. Central Park in the moonlit snow was indescribable. That beautiful moon seemed larger than ever – it was full tonight, like some pale mirror of the snow below. One or two stars could be seen despite the city lights – Polaris, or maybe the pinpricks of light were all that remained of Mars or Venus. The soft blanket of snow glistened – _yang_, to the _yin_ of the velvety black sky. 

All of this beauty was lost however, on the couple standing by a park bench near the frozen lake. They were too involved in the play of the pale light over shadowed skin, the mystical curls of foggy breath, the words traced by blueish lips. Nature's beauty was comprised solely by each other, not by any feat of geography or weather.

From a distance the couple looked like reverse images. One was thin and pale, and it was his mouth that did the talking, while his cerulean eyes slid away from his companion to stare awkwardly at the trampled snow. His hair flopped over his eyes, but his head never flipped it back into place like normal, and so it stayed over his face,obscuring his expression with shadow and blond hairs.

The other man was shorter, stockier, and blatantly Italian – not only did he posses the thick, brown hair, and pouting mouth, but his dark eyes gazed intently at the slender man, unwilling to look away. Only once did those eyes flick anywhere else, just a momentary glance at the velvet box the first man was hesitantly withdrawing from the pocket of his black pea coat.

The pale man paused for a second then, drawing his eyes up to the tiny box clutched in his gloved hand. Then he cracked the lid and tentatively offered it to his friend, his eyes rising ever higher, until finally, they restedon the face of his companion.

The treasure in the box winked and shone in the shivery moonlight, matching the wavery voice of the Italian man as his lips released one simple word.

Then he was pulling off his glove with his teeth, and the glove dropped unheeded into the snow, as the slender man slipped the ring onto the newly born hand. The box dropped too, its fall cushioned by the pristine snow.

The kiss that followed was as soft and pure as the snow on which the couple stood, but it lacked the bitter cold of winter's freeze. Instead the two pairs of lips delicately, lovingly, _silently_ sent up whorls of steamy breath into the empty night air, where they mingled together, mirroring the bodies beneath them.

And the beauty of that perfect night in Central Park passed unnoticed.

* * *

A/N: So I like it. I hope you do too. Please stick around, because I think the next chapter is probably my favorite of the ones I've written so far. 

Cheers,

Rama


	2. The Empty World Sings

A/N: Yay! Chapter two! However, I lied in the Author's Note at the end of Chapter one. This isn't my favorite chapter. I had thought that I would post a different chapter here, but I decided to switch up the order. Therefore, Chapter Three is the one that I really love. Not that this chapter isn't good or something.

It is good, if short. I know it's not that satisfying, but this is a collection of snapshots.

Oh, and before I go on, I would like to point out that THIS IS A SLASH FIC. It says so in the little summary under the title, it says so in the WARNING on the first chapter, and now it says so in this chapter too. Good God! If you don't want to read slash, THEN DON'T!

* * *

The first time Racetrack Higgins laid eyes on Spot Conlon, they didn't say a word. 

It was the summer before senior year, and Race was at a party. Now this was not that exciting in and of itself – Race partied a lot. At this particular party, he'd been eyeing a strip poker game for about five minutes now, contemplating joining in. But then there was a commotion in the corner, loud enough to be heard even over the music.

Race looked up to see a scrawny kid lying in the middle of the remains of what looked like a coffee table. There were a couple guys from the baseball team at school standing over him, yelling something. The kid,however, didn't look worried -just wiped blood off his nose and sat up. Then he gathered himself into a crouch and dived gracelessly for the biggest of his tormentors.

Surprisingly enough, the baseball guy toppled over with the kid on top of him and then it dissolved into a flurry of flying fists and smashing furniture. Race even considered going over to help, but then one of the girls in the poker game lost her pants, and he was distracted again.

The second time Racetrack Higgins laid eyes on Spot Conlon, he wasn't impressed.

It was at the same party, maybe ten minutes later. He had grown bored watching giggling girls fling their bras around and lose their hands. So he had consequently left the poker table for the keg. And it was there that he ran into the scrawny kid again.

Said kid was now sporting a black eye, a bloody nose, and was emptying his own cup at a superhuman speed.

Amazed in spite of himself, Race paused to watch as the guy drained the last mouthful of his beer, grimaced, and spat blood to the side. Without sparing Race a glance, he then refilled his cup and began again.

Raising an eyebrow, Race put down his drink and smirked to the side. "Nice shiner." He commented wryly.

The kid paused mid-chug to spit out an acidic, "Fuck off," before returning to his beer.

Race rolled his eyes, and tried again. "I saw the fight. He was like four times your size. Are you crazy?"

A baleful eye met Race's around the side of the red plastic cup. "No really. _Fuck off_."

Race sighed and tried one last time. "I'm glad you beat the shit out of him."

The scrawny kid frowned, and refilled his cup. "Good for you."

Slightly to the left of annoyed, Race decided to leave before he tried his luck on the shrimp. But as he walked off, he couldn't resist knocking lightly into the other kid. "I could take you." He muttered over his shoulder.

He later pretended he hadn't heard the snort of derision.

* * *

A/N: I know, I know. Very short. But I wanted to show the veeeeeeery first time that Spot and Race lay eyes on each other. We'll delve more into how they got to be a couple, later. But as for now, review! And come back to read the next chapter. I love it.

I'd like to thank my lovely reviewers - **Liam's Kitten** (sqee!), **'0'Emerald Eyes'0'** (Good catch with the title song - I'm impressed!), **Rustie73** (Wow, I didn't even think about the lack of dialog, but it's true!), and **pennylayne** (I'm honored).

As for **Defender**, well you probably won't be back for the second chapter, so I won't even bother.


	3. Radios in Heaven

A/N: Okay, folks! This is it! The long awaited FAVORITE CHAPTER! I know, it's a big deal, right? Well, I thought so. I really like the way this one turned out, even if it's really angsty and depressing. I think it's a nice, quiet, final look at the end of Race and Spot's relationship. I like the form and style as well. I really hope you all like it too. It's my baby...

But please review, and tell me what you honestly think. Because I'd like to know for future reference.

* * *

When Spot died, it left a hole in Racetrack's life. Never before had he woken up and not thought about where Spot was. Never before had he dialed Spot's cell number, only to have the automated operator's voice come on and tell him the number had been disconnected. Never before had he set the table for two and sat staring at the empty chair all night while dinner cooled on his plate. 

When Spot died, Racetrack tripped. Suddenly, he was forgetting the melody in the middle of a performance. Suddenly, he was burning his breakfast, undercooking his dinner, and buying pre-made sandwiches for lunch. Suddenly, he couldn't remember his bank account number or what day came after Tuesday.

When Spot died, Racetrack had known it was coming. He had watched the radiation and chemotherapy devour his partner's body from the inside out. He had watched the faces of the doctors grow increasingly grim. He had watched Spot lying on the bed as the morning light crawled across the apartment wall.

When Spot died, Racetrack got scared. He stopped performing – and eventually quit playing altogether. He stopped going to parties and avoided meeting new people. He stopped going out, and instead began spending his nights at home in the apartment with their – with _his_ – cat.

When Spot died, Racetrack changed. He let the plants wither and die from dehydration. He let rent eat away at his paychecks without bothering to make any more money to replace it. He let the phone ring, just to hear Spot's voice on the answering machine.

When Spot died, Racetrack was silent. He didn't cry when he woke to find Spot's hand cold in his. He didn't protest when Spot had said he wanted to stop treatment and spend the rest of his time at home. He didn't say goodbye before they fell asleep, even though he knew Spot wouldn't wake up in the morning.

Because when Spot died, Racetrack died too.

* * *

A/N: Edited while listening to "Radios in Heaven" by The Plain White T's. 


	4. I Eat Antipasta Twice

A/N: A little frivolous chapter, because all the other ones have been vaugley serious or plotty.

Enjoy the fluff.

* * *

"No, Spot. You _can't_ help." 

"Pleeeeeeeeeeeease?"

Race scowled at his boyfriend who was currently wreaking havoc with his normally piercing eyes. At the moment, those baby blues were impossibly wide, and blinking faux tears. Even from across the kitchen, it was all Race could do to stand his ground, especially when Spot's lower lip began to creep out.

"Stop it!"

The lower lip trembled a little, and Spot's dark eyelashes fluttered persuadingly. "Pretty _pretty_ please?" His forehead wrinkled.

Race groaned. Not the forehead wrinkle..."No! Remember what happened last time? The fucking _fire department_ came!"

Spot's pout faded from pleading to petulant. "It wasn't _my_ fault that _you_ didn't hear the buzzer go off."

"It is _entirely_ your fault!"

Spot's trademark smirk curled the edges of his mouth. "Don't say you weren't enjoying it."

The heat that rose in Race's cheeks was not entirely due to the vigor with which he was stirring the batter. Even after living together for six months, Spot could still make his more conservative boyfriend flush."I didn't say I wasn't enjoying it." Race finally conceded primly. "However, I _didn't_ enjoy our next insurance payment."

Spot shrugged. "Trifles, trifles," he murmured in a cheesy British accent. "Really, you ought to let it go. Stiff upper lip and all that tosh." Crossing his legs, he fluttered one hand dismissively, and slid his glasses down onto his face so he could peer haughtily at over them. "You are giving it entirely too much attention. _Entirely_."

Race snorted and flicked Spot with floury fingertips. "Don't build up too much steam. You sound ridiculous." He reached over and pushed Spot's glasses back up on his nose, leaving a trail of moistening flour.

With a mournful sigh and a distinctively mercurial mood swing, Spot shifted off his stool. He thought for a moment, pulled his glasses off entirely, and placed them neatly out of the way. Then he wandered quietly over behind Race, watching his boyfriend carefully transferring the dough from the bowl to the countertop.

Race's hackles rose as Spot observed him quietly. Warily, he watched out of the corners of his eyes, waiting for Spot to strike. But instead, he ambled over behind Race, wrapped his arms around Race's middle, and rested his chin on Race's shoulder. For a moment, he seemed content to just _be_ with Race. Feeling a soft smile creep onto his face, Race relaxed back against him.

But then he stole some dough.

"Spot!" Race yelped, desperately trying to rescue his lost pizza crust. "Put it back!"

But said thief danced easily out of reach, practically giggling and prancing at his own cleverness. "Now you _have_ to let me help. I'll hold this dough hostage!" He crowed, raising it triumphantly over his head.

Race rolled his eyes and swiped at the dough overhead. "You are so juvenile! I wish your public could see you like this."

"Public? What public?" Spot sniffed, passing the dough from hand-to-hand. "I have no public!"

"Not with that attitude and not with this stupid obsession with my dough!"

Spot pranced in behind Race – still managing to hold the dough out of reach – and slipped his hand into Race's back pocket.

Race stiffened.

Spot smirked and muttered "Easy tiger," before he easily slid his boyfriend's wallet out, poking a newly floured finger into the folds. "You have enough dough to share, so don't think I feel guilty." Spot winked at Race and tossed the wallet over next to his glasses. "Now, I want to make pizza too!"

Feeling a headache coming on, Race squeezed the bridge of his nose and tried one last time. "_Spot_, I'm not going to have enough dough to make us a pizza _at_ _all_ if you don't give that back!"

The smirk that grew on Spot's face was enough to let Race know he'd just done exactly what Spot had intended. "Well that's all right. You can make one for me, and I'll make mine for you. Personal pan pizzas!" He squeezed his dough through his fingers and grinned. "This will be fun! Not like last time. Well, maybe a _little_ bit." He winked.

Race groaned and rubbed his temples.

And so, Spot won the dough war. And he got the better pizza. But Race decided it was a fair trade – even when Spot forgot to put flour down on the counter before he started kneading, and got sticky dough all over the formica. Even when Spot dropped sauce on Race's white shirt. Even when Spot forgot to put the cheese back in the fridge and let his pizza burn a little. Even when Race then had to eat said pizza, while he watched a satisfied Spot munch away at Race's perfectly delicious and genuinely Italian pizza. Still Race considered it fair.

Because, after all the cooking was said and done, things had ended up just like last time. Except the fire department didn't come.

Race wiped flour off Spot's nose and thanked the world for small blessings.

* * *

A/N: Well? What did you think? A little change of pace there from the last chapter. Speaking of, I'd like to thank my wonderful reviewers... 

**Rustie73**: not only did you review every chapter, but you alway leave such poignant and helpful reviews. Thanks darling! **Liams Kitten**: I love you and your reviews, and I'm so glad you're back! **Lyse's Pieces**: Fresh blood! Thank you for your review - it really meant a lot, even if you couldn't think of the adjective. .-

Thanks to everyone else who reads, even if you don't review, and PLEASE do so this time, I'm feeling a little lonely.


	5. Now Hate is a Strong Word

A/N: Woo! Another chapter. Whereas the last one was fluff and silliness, this one is lust and smut. Well, not quite smut. But getting close to it. So enjoy, my pretties, and review!

* * *

Race was pretty sure he was drunk. He'd certainly come to the party to get drunk, and as the smudged clock showed on the wall he been at the party for… well, a long time. He tossed back the last bit of amber liquid in his cup and started the long and winding trip back to the keg. 

At one point he was knocked aside by a couple more than halfway through their drunken foreplay without even being a fourth of the way to the bedroom. His brain was too inebriated to keep him from falling, so he let himself be knocked into the wall. "Oof." He muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to stave off the dizziness.

"Well, look who it is…" a familiar voice slurred.

With a groan, Race flopped his head sideways to see the half-lidded blue eyes of Spot Conlon staring back at him. "Fuck off, Conlon." He mumbled.

"That's my line… Higgins…"

Race tried to get his eyes to focus on Spot – whom he hadn't seen since they had driven down to college. He looked good, for a drunken college student. Race was thankful that his brain was too jumbled to think much about just how good Spot looked, with his hair flopping over his face and his eyes hazy with drink.

He seemed to be about to say something, when they were jostled again – this time by some girl in a rush to get to the bathroom, or at least a semi-secluded corner. Ironically, Spot ended up being thrust forward into Race, who in turn fell back against the wall. After ascertaining that he was still standing, Race looked up… to find himself in a very awkward situation.

They were pressed nearly chest-to-chest, and Spot's alcohol-tinged breath was hot on Race's face. But he didn't move, just stood there, breathing heavily. Race made as if to move around Spot, but the taller boy's arm shot out to block his path.

"What? You scared or somethin'?"

Race frowned. "Of you? Never." He stopped trying to exit the situation; despite its awkwardness. If Spot wanted a challenge, well by golly, he was going to get one.

Spot's eyes narrowed. "You should be." He murmured.

The tension in the air rose abruptly, until Race thought he was going to snap. Rising up on his toes, he got right in Spot's face. There was something there; something subliminal in the conversation, but there was no way his soggy brain could process any subtleties, and so he filed it away for later study. "You don't scare me."

"Yeah?"

There it was again, that rise in tension. Race nearly screamed, but hell if he was going to let Spot win this confrontation. "Yeah."

For another moment, they stood there, noses almost touching. Then some tall guy shoved past them, knocking Spot further into Race. Their faces collided.

After the first bruising impact, Race pulled away a little bit, tasting blood on his lip, and feeling heat in his cheeks – heat that was entirely unrelated to the alcohol in his system. But Spot's harsh voice stopped him.

"Thought ya weren't scared."

And then Race's inebriated brain finally contributed a relevant, rather obvious thought to the discussion – one a long time in coming. He. Wanted. Spot. _Badly_.

So really, there was only one thing to do.

"I ain't." he growled, and then they were kissing again.

God, Race was drunk. That was the problem, really. If he was sober, he wouldn't be smashed up against some wall in a house on campus, attempting to stick his tongue down Sean Conlon's throat. He hadn't fully succeeded yet, because _Sean's_ tongue was trying to slither its way down _his_ throat, and there was surprisingly little space for both appendages.

So, seeing as he was drunk, he might as well enjoy it while it lasted. He grabbed onto the collar of Spot's shirt and yanked the other boy closer, who responded by pulling his mouth away enough to close his teeth around Race's lip. Race dug his fingers into the back of Spot's neck, drawing a harsh moan as he scratched his nails down over the other boy's shoulders. Then he shoved away from the wall, but only enough to swing his left shoulder around and slam Spot backwards, so that their positions were reversed.

Hands and mouths were roaming everywhere, and Race swore he could hear their ragged breathing over the music. Spot was tugging him sideways, turning to keep their lips locked while they stumbled backwards. He murmured, "Bedroom" into Race's ear before finding the sensitive spot in the hollow of throat and jaw, which caused Race to let out an appreciative groan. Letting himself be drawn along, Race had to wonder if this was a good idea – could he really go through with this? It was quite… _sudden_, and entirely unexpected. Well, _almost_ entirely. His brain sloshed around a bit and made promising sounds, as if it were getting its act together to stop him, but it was really hard to concentrate with Spot doing… well, everything.

Then suddenly the squeal of sirens cut through the night, and everything turned into chaos. People began rushing down the hallway, knocking Race away from Spot and then bowling him along in the mad rush to get out the back. He was slammed repeatedly into a kitchen counter until he managed to steer himself out through the open door and into the dark night. He didn't see Spot anywhere.

It took Race three tries to fit his key into the lock on his dormroom, and eventually his roommate had to come and unlock the door for him. Chris was not pleased about being woken up at 3am, but had long since learned that a drunk Race was no Race to mess with.

So instead he rolled his eyes and locked the door behind them again, as Race stumbled over to his bed and collapsed face down on it.

"Good party?" Chris asked sardonically, flipping off the light.

Race rolled over, and stared up at the white spackle of his ceiling. "Yeah." He mumbled. "I guess."

* * *

A/N: Well? Tell me what you thought, please. I meant to post this after the tale of Race and Spot's roadtrip to college, but as of now, this is the only chapter that I feel comfortable posting. The other ones aren't quite ready yet. Please **review**, my loves. 

I'd like to thank this chapters reviewers: **Rustie73** (my faithful reviewer friend! I'm glad you thought the dialogue was okay - I have trouble writing comedy. Thanks!) and -**'0'EmeraldEyes'0'**- (nice to hear from you again! I'm glad you like the way the story is progressing!). Also I'd really like to thank **Tess** (I'm sorry, I don't know your penname) who actually im'd me, and kept me company while I worked on another chapter. Thanks loves!

So please review, and you too could have your name in lights! Haha, I love you all, and goodnight!


	6. Those Three Words

A/N: Hello my pretties! Here's another chapter, back from the very beginning of Race and Spot's acquaintance. So enjoy and review, please!

* * *

"Robin! Where the hell is Robin?" Race yelled, stomping down the hallway. 

He didn't know how he'd ended up as his high school's newspaper editor. He didn't write well, he probably never would, and he considered school newspapers a joke. But he _had_ been the Band correspondent his Sophomore and Junior year – purely to make his college applications look good, of course – and so when he had been approached about being editor his Senior year, for some strange reason (his mother), he'd accepted.

He hadn't really cared about it thus far, and as long as he got the issues out on time and there was no profanity in the titles, no one else cared either. The other kids on the newspaper staff were there for the same reason he was.

But when the girl in charge of reporting on the English department – Robin – passed him a sample of writing for a feature, he hadn't expected it to be so, well… _good_.

And so that was why he was practically tearing his hair out trying to find the stupid girl. Certainly _she_ hadn't written this.

"_Robin_!"

"What the hell, Tony?" A girl with tousled brown hair entirely ruined by her close-set eyes, poked her head out of a classroom. "I was kind of… busy." She snickered back at someone in the room with her.

Race thrust the battered sheet of notebook paper under her nose. "I really could give a flying rat's ass if you're busy. Who wrote this?" He growled.

Raising an eyebrow, Robin primly removed the story from his fist. After surveying it, she curled her lip distastefully and shrugged, thrusting the paper back at his chest. "I don't know, Mrs. Rice gave it to me."

Throwing up his hands, Race stormed off.

Mrs. Rice was a teacher who had gotten bossier and fatter the longer she taught, and she'd been teaching for a long time. Race found her in her classroom, glaring over her glasses at the kids serving detention in front of her. When she noticed Race waiting patiently at her door, she sighed and stood. "If _anyone_ so much as _moves_ while I am gone, you will all serve another _two hours_. Clear?" She sailed out of the room before anyone replied.

In the hallway, she raised an eyebrow at Race. "Yes, Anthony? What is so important?"

He took a deep breath and held up the carefully smoothed paper for her inspection. "I'd like to know who wrote this. Robin said you gave it to her."

"Oh? _Robin_ said so, did she?" Mrs. Rice didn't wait for him to answer. "Well, as a matter of fact, I _did_ give it to her. This piece was turned in to me, and when I asked if I could submit it to the newspaper, the author only agreed as long as he or she remained _anonymous_."

Race groaned, but collected himself under the English teacher's glare. "Is there any way you could point me to the author? Any way at all?"

Mrs. Rice raised one penciled and plucked eyebrow. "Whatever for, Anthony?"

"I think this piece is really good." Race paused. "Like, really, _really_ good. I'd like to see more, and perhaps I could work something out with the author. Maybe do a featured story or two. A serial, perhaps?"

Race watched her eyes light up, but then she pursed her lips and her eyes narrowed again, disappearing under folds of sagging flesh. "Well I'm sure _I_ don't know, but I was under the impression that the author feels very strongly about keeping his anonymity." She paused. "Or hers."

Feeling the prize dancing just around the corner, Race smiled. A very conniving smile it was, too. "Well, Mrs. Rice," he said, letting his deviousness slip away behind a mask of disheartened sincerity. "That really is too bad. You see, I know that other kids would really like great writing like this. It could generate more interest in the paper, and the English page in particular. Could move your – I mean, _the English_ page – up further in the paper. You know, like _page two_ perhaps." He started to turn away, with a faux sigh.

"In front of the Athletics page?" The teacher's sharp voice let Race know he had her, hook, line, and inverted clause.

"Yes. In front of _all the other departments_. But it's just too bad I can't find that author. _He_ – or she – could really bring your page up in the rankings…"

"It's Sean Conlon's." She burst out, and Race smiled to himself. "But you didn't hear it from me."

* * *

Race had hoped to call the Conlon kid when he got home, but to his surprise, there was no number listed for him in the school directory. And the only Conlons in the phone book were an elderly couple with no children and a line that no one picked up and didn't have an answering machine. 

Frustrated, Race had to wait for the next day.

* * *

After some detective work, he was pointed to a guy in a dark hoodie, sitting on top of a dumpster and smoking. 

Race raised an eyebrow, but trudged over. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he deliberately appraised the kid. He was slender underneath the baggy zip-up, his booted feet bracing him over the abyss of rot and reek. Grey eyes flicked over Race and away again without a word.

Suddenly, Race laughed.

The grey eyes shot back to him again, and one eyebrow rose.

"You're the kid from the party. The shrimp."

The eyebrow jerked back down, and the kid actually turned his head to look. "The _what_?"

Race grinned. "The skinny guy. You got in a fight."

"Oh fuck _off_."

"That's what you said then, too."

"They're the only words that come to mind when I look at you."

A shot of adrenaline rushed through Race's veins. He loved a good battle of insults. But he crushed the urge just as quickly. He had other things to deal with. "Are you Sean Conlon?"

The kid blew smoke in Race's direction.

"Is that a yes?" Race persisted.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I wanna know."

A curious eyebrow climbed up the guy's forehead again. "Why would you think that's my name?"

"Because the kid beating up the other kid behind the vending machines said that you were out here."

"So what makes you think it's me?" The eyebrow slipped down again.

"I don't see anyone else out here. If you tell me, I'll quit bugging you."

"That a promise?"

"No."

That surprised a bark of laughter out of the kid. He leaned back, and surveyed Race. After a moment, he shrugged. "Yeah, it's me. What's it to ya?"

Race took a deep breath. "I know it was your piece that Mrs. Rice submitted to the newspaper, and I was wondering if you'd consider submitting more."

The kid – _Sean_, Race reminded himself – frowned. "I thought it was an anonymous submission."

With a shrug, Race allowed himself a small smile. "What can I say? I have a charming personality."

"Like _hell_."

Letting his grin grow slightly, he turned a satisfied eye on the other boy. "Well I found _you_ out, didn't I?"

Sean snorted. "Only 'cause you're so annoying. What makes you think I'd let you see any of my writing?"

"Well I could ask _nicely_…"

Sean tossed his cigarette butt at Race's feet. "Won't do you any _good_…" He returned, matching Race's singsongy tone.

"I thought that maybe you'd want showcase more of your work – you could do it anonymously, through Mrs. Rice or whatever. I thought maybe a serial?"

For a moment, Sean didn't respond. "Why do you want to see my shit?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because it's fucking _brilliant_!" Race snapped. "You know how bad the school paper is?" Sean's snort of derision told Race that he did. "Yeah, well I'll be the first to admit that the paper sucks, and a lot of that is my fault. But I still know good writing when I see it, and your writing is off the charts. Really, I'd like to see it get recognized – even anonymously. I bet everyone else would like it, too. Have you ever put stuff in any contests?"

"No. Why the fuck would I do _that_?"

Race threw up his hands. "Because you'd win!" Realizing he wasn't helping himself by getting pissed off, he took a deep breath. "Look, you don't have to agree right now, but will you at least think about it? A _little_?"

Sean sighed and leapt easily down from the dumpster. "Fine. Just to shut you up though. I'm not promising anything." He picked up his backpack from where it had been sitting by the wall, and trudged away. "I'll just say no, anyway."

A tiny smile grew on Race's face, but he squashed it down resolutely, and gathered his courage. "Hey."

Sean paused.

"Can I see more of your stories? Just for me? I promise I won't show anyone else, or put them in the newspaper or anything. I just… you're a _good_ writer. I like your stuff. Well at least, what I've seen. And I haven't seen much. Just the one paper. I mean… yeah, I'll shut up now." Embarrassed, he ran his hand over his eyes.

Sean was still for a moment more. "No." He said shortly, and then strode back into school.

But when Race opened his backpack in fifth period, there was a battered piece of notebook paper right on top, written in a cramped hand, unlike Race's own block capitals.

He smiled.

* * *

A/N: Well? Did you like? I love this chapter, not only because I find Writer!Spot to be deadly sexy, but because you can sort of see the frame of what's to come. Anyway, tell me what you all thought - honestly. 

And I'd like to thank last chapter's lovely reviewers: -**'0'EmeraldEyes'0'**- (finding your review this morning made my day happy, like seriuosly, I'm in a good mood now), **Tess** (my writing buddy!), and **Liams Kitten** (good to hear from you again!). Thanks to everyone!

The next chapter should be out by the weekend, so keep a weather eye out!


	7. We Couldn't Say Them

A/N: Another chapter! This kind of mirrors the movement of the last chapter - it was another look at the beginning and here's another bit of the end. Bittersweet indeed. I so totally ruined the suspense. Good one, me. Anyway, please tell me what you honestly think. Honestly.

* * *

Race looked up from his newspaper when Spot trudged through the door. "Hey." He greeted absently. "There's a message for you on the machine." 

Spot paused momentarily, before dropping his briefcase on the kitchen table and approaching Race's seat on the couch. "Hey." He murmured back, ignoring the latter comment in favor of climbing on top of his partner. He stared down at Race's curious face for a moment, then dropped a quiet kiss on his lips.

Bemused, Race raised an eyebrow when they broke apart. "What was that for? Not that I didn't like it and all…"

Spot smiled, shook his head and squished himself onto the couch next to Race. He wrapped an arm around his partner and sighed quietly. "I love you, you know."

Race kissed the blond head nestled on his chest, and went back to reading the paper. "Yeah," he murmured absently. "I know. I love you too." He finished the article he had been reading and looked down at Spot, who was still spooned around him. "What's gotten into you, lately? You're suddenly all into lovey-dovey shit and PDAs."

Spot stiffened. "You don't like it?"

Race smiled. "Of _course_ I like it. I was just surprised – you're usually more reserved." He patted Spot's head and smiled.

"Maybe…" Spot mumbled, "maybe I just realized how much I love you. Maybe I wanted you to know."

Race's smile softened and he put aside the paper to run his hands through Spot's silky hair. "You don't have to _force_ yourself to make out with me in public just so that I'll know you love me," he teased lightly.

Raising his head slightly, Spot glanced up at Race. "I wasn't forcing myself. I used to have to force myself _not_ to make out with you."

"Why the change?" Race asked, touched in spite of himself.

Spot shrugged and let his head fall back onto Race's chest, content to just lie there on the couch and play absently with the buttons on his partner's shirt.

After a few minutes, Race finally broke the easy silence. "Aren't you going to listen to your message?"

Spots body stiffened, but after a second, he let out his breath in a resigned rush. Climbing off of Race, he trudged silently over to the phone.

Immediately, Race wished he hadn't spoken up. The mood was definitely broken, and Spot's quiet sentimentality seemed to have disappeared too. Now, as he dropped his coat over a chair and plodded into the light, Race was shocked by how gaunt and tired his partner looked. He was about to ask if everything was all right, when the message clicked on.

_"Hello, this is St. Vincent's Hospital, calling for Sean Conlon. We just wanted to confirm that you have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow with-"_

The message cut off with a harsh beep as Spot removed his finger from the 'delete' button.

Concerned, Race sat up and swung his legs off the couch. "Spot?"

Spot was facing away from his partner, and he didn't turn. "It was just one of those reminder messages, I don't need to hear the rest."

"What's the appointment for?" Race asked, worried by his partner's brusque tone.

"Just a routine check-up. One of those things you get every decade or so. I figured twenty-nine is close enough, right?" He turned and smiled briefly at Race before sighing theatrically. "Well, I got stuck next to some bum on the train, so I'd better take a shower. Let's have dinner out tonight, 'kay? I feel like making out in public a little more." He headed off in the direction of the bedroom.

Race sat on the couch and stared at his hands for a long time.

* * *

A/N: Well? Too blatant? Too cliffhangery? Tell me please! 

And to last chapter's lovely reviewers: **Shi** (Thanks for the amazingful (definitely a word) review!), and **Rustie73** (2 reviews! I love you! Your reviews are always so detailed and insightful. You're the best!). You guys are the best!

Everyone else? Are you out there? Feedback? Please?


	8. Would You Lie With Me?

A/N: Stupid logged me off after I wrote out lovely long author's notes and edited the story and it DELETED EVERYTHING! Diediediediedie.

Anyway, paraphrasing last time, this chapter has a lovely amount of angsty fluff. No, not an oxymoron. Just read, it makes sense. So enjoy! And please... review?

* * *

Race leaned against the apartment door debating whether or not he wanted to open it. The concert had gone well, but the minute he'd taken off his tux, all the rush from performing had dribbled out of him. Now he just felt drained. And to make matters worse, all he had to come home to was the battlefield that had formerly been an apartment. 

With a deep breath, he shoved his key into the lock and shouldered inside. It was dark, and quiet enough that he could hear Spot's soft snores from the bedroom. Race sighed in relief. There would be no more arguments tonight.

This latest one had started with Race's trumpet. As a musician, his livelihood lay in his lips, lungs, and fingers. That meant he couldn't have one of those compromised by cancerous tumors or thick second-hand smoke. Consequently, living with a smoker was obviouslythe rightway to lose his job and ability to play altogether. Therefore, Spot had to stop smoking or Race had to move out.

He would have thought that was an easy choice for Spot, but apparently it wasn't. They had argued all day, until Race had to run to make it to his performance on time. Spot had gone outside to sit on the fire escape while Race frantically got ready. And even after all that had been said,he had still lit up while he was out there – in plain view through the window. It looked like he had made his decision.

Race tossed his tux bag over a chair and groaned. He'd managed to shut off his emotions so that he could make it through the concert, but now they came rushing back worse than ever. Anger, disappointment, fear -it was as if every negative emotion in the universe was trying to force its way into his head.

Frustrated with his stupid chain-smoking boyfriend and tired of feeling like a shit, Race kicked off his shoes and put away his trumpet. He'd sleep on it in hopes not that things would be better in the morning, but that Spot would already have left for work by the time Race awoke.

There was no message in Spot's cramped handwriting waiting on the kitchen table, but Race hadn't been expecting one. However, when he went to empty his pockets into the trash can, there, sitting pristinely on a crumpled piece of paper, were six packs of clove cigarettes. Further investigation divulged a couple packs of nicotine patches in a bag by the bed. Race hadn't expected any of this either, but sometimes -he mused as he crawled contently into bed next to his boyfriend - it was nice to be surprised.

* * *

A/N: So? You see? Angsty fluff - it makes sense. It was a bit short, but I cut a lot of character exploration and description because I was worried it would be boring and stagnate the story. What do you all think?

To last chapter's lovely reviewers: **Tess** (you like that mention of Spot writing? Just you wait... heheh), **xoborogrlxo** (welcome, and thank you for the multiple long and helpful reviews! It's like Christmas came early!), and **Rustie73** (my most faithful reviewer, I love you! Your reviews are always so insightful and honest. Thanks for all your help!) you all are great, thanks again.

See you next chapter.


	9. You Can Be as Loud as the Hell You Want

A?N: So this is a more risque chapter. I tried to keep it relatively general in order to keep the 'T' rating, but still if you're easily offened, um... be careful.

WARNING: Rampant sexuality. Lots of references to sex; both hetero- and homoerotic. Relatively non-graphic.

* * *

Spot was a fan of random conversations. Well, it was actually more of conversations about random topics. Whenever Race asked him what the _hell_ he was talking about, or where he'd gotten _that_ from the previous sentence, Spot would just shrug and say he was 'studying'. 

Spot did that a lot. It wasn't actually studying as in book research for tests or papers, he certainly didn't do too much of that. As an English major, he instead liked to study people's reactions in odd situations – which made dating him a rather trying experience.

"Have you ever had sex with a woman?"

Race choked on his coffee (a grande drip, no room) and blinked at Spot in surprise. After swallowing sufficiently enough to allow speech, he carefully put down his drink and wiped his mouth. "Beg pardon?"

Spot cocked his head and repeated his question. "Have you ever had sex with a woman?"

Resigning himself to another round to random questions, Race sighed. "Yes."

"What was it like?"

Race looked at his boyfriend incredulously. "Spot, do we have to do this _here_? We're in the middle of a goddamn coffee shop. People can _hear_ us!"

With a shrug, Spot folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. "So don't fucking shout."

Knowing he'd end up telling him one way or another, Race sighed. "Fine. It was just sex, not really that different."

"Liar."

Race snorted. "Okay, it was a lot different. But it was still just sex. It was kinda like just trying a new position, I guess. Maybe it was a little easier."

"Did it take you longer to climax?"

Spot's detached tone and almost scientific interest helped Race relax a little. "Yeah. I mean, we didn't go on forever, but it did take longer."

"Details?"

Race smirked. "It wasn't as good as when _we_ do it."

That surprised a grin out of Spot's clinical façade. "Well, I should hope not. Give me some credit here!"

Race laughed and leaned across the table to kiss Spot quickly. "I do give you credit. That's why I'm screwing you instead."

Spot snorted, but his peculiar mood was back. "On topic, please."

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Race took a long pull from his coffee. "The older I got, the more my sexuality seemed to change. Halfway through freshman year, I was openly bi. By junior, I was almost exclusively gay."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, _why_? Why _what_? Why am I gay? Why did I change?"

Spot continued to stare unwaveringly at Race. "Why everything?"

Desperately trying to keep the exasperation from his voice, Race sighed. "I don't know why I changed, women just got less pleasurable. Or maybe it was that boys just got more interesting. There's all that jazz about guys maturing slower than girls – either it just took me longer to mature into my sexuality, or I started liking guys when they finally started acting their ages."

"Or both."

"Or both." Race conceded. "I'm gay because I like screwing men."

"Why?"

Race closed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because it's better than screwing women. Men actually know what to do – they're not just guessing or whatever. Men don't have to talk about every little thing - with each other or with their other friends. Men make more sense on the whole – and therefore I want to have a relationship with them, as opposed to with women, whom I have trouble understanding."

Spot nodded. "A valuable insight." He was silent for a moment, sipping his own coffee (some naturally grown brew from some obscure African country like Burundi or wherever). "When was all this woman-sex happening?"

Hiding a smile – he'd known Spot couldn't _help_ but ask that – Race pretended to think carefully. "Hmmm. I lost my virginity at seventeen, and I last had sex with a woman like a week before we started dating."

"Whore." Spot muttered into his coffee, but he looked pretty damn smug anyway.

Race blew him a lascivious kiss and smirked. "My turn. Have _you_ ever had sex with a woman?"

Spot blinked, then smiled and leaned back. "I wondered if you'd ask. Yes, I have."

"What!" Race yelped. "Then why did you have to ask me all about it?"

Calmly, Spot finished off his coffee. "I just wanted to see how your experiences differed from mine. The more opinions I can get, the better."

Race scowled. "Whatever. If I had to run the gauntlet of embarrassing questions so do you. So tell."

With a shrug, Spot tossed his empty cup in the garbage and folded his hands on the table. "First of all, the questions were hardly embarrassing-" he ignored Race's squawk of outrage, "and secondly, yes I have had sex with women,but only once in a while. It started way back in high school – senior year, actually. My best friend – Darcy, remember her? Yeah, anyway, she wanted to lose her virginity before she had sex with someone she actually liked _that_ way – just to get rid of all the pain and awkwardness. So we decided to have a discovery fuck." He snorted and covered his eyes. "It was everything both of us had worried it would be – painful, awkward, and probably unbearably ugly."

Race snickered. Only Spot would worry about _sex_ being ugly.

Knowing the reason for Race's muffled laugh, Spot grinned unabashedly. "Don't worry, _our_ sex is very beautiful. But it was nice to get all the ugliness out of the way with someone I didn't actually desire or whatever."

"You've had sex with other women besides her though, haven't you?"

Spot shrugged. "Every now and then I either get tired of the dry spells between pretty boys, or I get bored with uninventive partners. So I dip my toes in the other side of the pool."

Race's eyes narrowed. "How often?"

"Defensive, are we? Don't worry, the last time I screwed a woman was almost a year before we started dating. And even before then it was only once every six months or so. Women really aren't that alluring once they get all naked and sweaty and start fucking you."

Race nodded sagely, clamping his lips over the laughter that was threatening to erupt. "Screwing men is _so_ much better."

Grinning, Spot slid one foot up Race's leg under the table. "Want to go and make sure you're remembering the male prowess correctly?"

"_God_ yes. I thought you'd never ask…"

Spot laughed and grabbed Race's hand, tugging his boyfriend out of the Starbucks. This was the reason Race put up with all the awkward questions and bizarre conversations. Spot _always_ made it worth his while.

* * *

A: So? What did you think? Yes, like the conversation, this is a _very_ random chapter. But then again,it is a story of snapshots. In the chapter, I tried to avoid stupid sexual slang words because I find them really awkward to say and to read. Which actually worked really well, because when Spot is doing research he would be all clinical and use the correct names. What did you all think? Don't be afraid to review just because it's a sexual chapter, now! 

To last Chapter's wonderful reviewers: **-'0'EmeraldEyes'0'-** (I know Chapter 7 was cliff-hangery, it will be resolved later in the story... Thanks for the three - count 'em folks, three - reviews! And I'm glad I managed to make Spot's decision to quit smoking believeable - I had to do it from Race's perspective because I don't smoke and I don't think I could make it realistic enough from Spot's POV - I always look forward to your reviews...) and **Tess** (You're altogether too sharp for your own good. And I'd say you were spoiling the ending, but wait, I already posted the ending, so it doesn't matter! Thanks for the review darling!). You two are great!

Don't fear the review button, even if it means that you have to admit that you just read a chapter about two gay boys sitting in a Starbucks chatting about sex (with women and with men). You can do it anonymously if you really want to. Just please do! I want feedback on this chapter really badly...


	10. By the Time that We Get Through

A/N: I'm really curious as to people's reactions to this chapter (like Spot). I wrote it after having a horrible fight with my best friend/love of my life. I had to tell myself some very painful truths, and this is the emotional mess that rose from the aftermath.

&&&

When Spot pushed open the apartment door and trudged inside, he wasn't expecting to be greeted by a pile of cardboard boxes. "Tony?" He called warily.

There was a scuffling from the bedroom, and Race waded out, a tired look on his face. "Hey Sean," he murmured.

Spot's grey eyes flicked over the apartment quickly, and his face stilled. "You're leaving."

Race sighed, and hefted a box onto his hip, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. "We both knew this was coming. It was time - we've been together a long time, maybe too long."

"I suppose," Spot said quietly, "that this is a pretty easy end, considering." He reached down and grabbed the nearest box. It was half full of CDs and movies – the ones Race had contributed to their collection.

Race watched sadly as Spot carried the box over to the media station and began ruthlessly culling the remaining cases. After years under the same roof, he knew his lover's moods like he knew his own, and he could physically _see_ Spot bricking up a wall between them. But that was a wall that hadn't been built overnight, and there was nothing Race could do about it now. So instead he took his box and headed back to the bedroom.

It was hard, pulling down the painting Spot had bought him for their second anniversary, or packing away the statue he'd bought for the room at a flea market last year. The empty space screamed of painful memories – both happy and sad. Race didn't know which were worse.

He was folding the last of his shirts when Spot wordlessly set his box on the bed. His grey eyes ran over the room, lighting on each of the voids where candles or statues had sat, the bare walls where paintings had hung, the abandoned hangers gently clinking in the closet.

Avoiding those piercing eyes, Race opened Spot's box. The movie on the top was 'Stand By Me' and Race's breath stumbled to a stop in his throat. "But, Sean…" he whispered, "you _love_ this movie…"

Spot's ink-stained hand crossed into his field of vision and closed the box. "You love it more."

Race had to take a moment to force down the lump in his throat, but Spot hadn't moved when he finally mastered himself. "Thanks." Race mumbled awkwardly, unsure what was left to say.

Spot didn't seem to know either, so they just stood there in silence. Spot stared hard at Race, as if memorizing every last detail; while Race stared hard at the floor. It had been _his_ decision – _he_ had chosen to take this final step. But he still couldn't meet those grey eyes.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore, and grabbed the two boxes. "Well," he said, his voice harsh in the dead air and dying memories. "I guess this is it then."

Spot nodded, and led the way back into the foyer. "Where will you go?"

Thankful that Spot's steely gaze was focused somewhere else, Race hefted the boxes higher in his arms. "To a friend's. And then my own place, I guess. Well, once I find one."

Spot grabbed two more boxes. "Is your friend helping you transport this stuff? I can store it here until you find somewhere…" he trailed off, and looked away.

Surprised at the role reversal, Race smiled mirthlessly. "He's at work, but he loaned me his car – it's parked outside." He paused. "I'll be all right."

Spot's only answer was a brusque nod, and they ferried all the boxes to the car in silence.

When the last box was finally crammed into the back seat, Race surveyed the apartment he'd called home for the last three years. It looked… picked over, like thieves had broken in during the night. But he was slightly consoled by the fact that he felt no remorse for leaving, only a dull sort of numbness. This _had_ been the right decision, after all.

That left only the awkward goodbye. Determined to get it over with as painlessly as possible, he turned to Spot. "I'm sorry this had to end." He said matter-of-factly. "I wouldn't take it back, and I hope you wouldn't either. When it was great…" he trailed off, watching Spot for a sign. But the other man had let his hair flop over his eyes, obscuring his expression behind a curtain of silky blond locks. Race cleared his throat. "I loved you, nothing's going to change that, all right?" he gripped Spot's by the shoulder, forcing their eyes to meet.

Behind his bangs, Spot's gaze was sterile and emotionless – he looked about as interested as he did in the waiting room at the dentist's office. "Yeah. You were right, it _was_ coming. I'm glad we did what we did." His gaze was beaming into Race's forehead. "If you need anything…"

Race smiled wobbily. "I'll call." He went to hug Spot, one last time.

But Spot flinched away, flicking his hair back over his face. "Don't." he muttered harshly, turning to face the wall. "Let's just…" A strangled expression danced across his face before quickly disappearing again. "...don't, okay? I'm sorry."

Biting his lip, Race nodded. Hugging would be the wrong thing to do. He needed to get out before those grey eyes could pull him back in. "I understand. Goodbye, Sean."

Spot nodded, and Race headed reluctantly for the door, leaving his key on the counter as he passed.

"Tony…" Spot called – so quietly that Race almost didn't hear. But he did, and even if he didn't turn, he paused for a second, waiting for Spot to continue.

"I loved you too. Just… know that."

Feeling tears welling up in his eyes, Race took a deep breath, and continued out the door. Once it had closed behind him, he sank back against it, sliding down to the ground as he dug a handkerchief from his pocket. Eventually, he'd have to climb back to his feet, trudge down the stairs, and drive away. But right now it was all he could do to keep from crying. Letting his head drop back against the wood, Race closed his eyes.

Inside the apartment, Spot stared at the door for a long time. Then he took a deep breath and headed for the bathroom, wiping his face surreptitiously. He turned the shower on as hot as it would go and climbed in, not even bothering to strip off his clothes until they were already soaked from the spray. He let the shower wash over him with its torrent of scalding tears.

&&&

A/N: Well? This is the most personal chapter I've written, even if the translation isn't literal. It's the emotion that I was trying to convey here. Any commentary would be greatly appreciated. And I think it was rather theraputic. It's the first time I'd really tried something like this.

And I know the gravitas was entirely ruined by the fact that the stupid 'line' button wasn't working, so I had to improvise. How retarded.

To last chapter's lovely reviewers: **xoborogrlxo** (nice to hear from you again! Thanks especially for the feedback!), -**0'EmeraldEyes'0'**- (I seriously love you. I'm glad that you liked last chapter, it was certainly a different view of the relationship! Thanks!), and **Tess** (even though you didn't officially review, thanks anyway!). You guys are the best!


	11. Send Me A Song

A/N: Hey everyone! Thanks for all the great reviews I received for last chapter, they meant a lot. We'll hear more of the story surrounding that incident as I post more chapters. But for now, here's a little bit more character exposition and exploration. So enjoy the happy couple again.

&&&

Spot decided that watching Race play was the most sexy, beautiful, and soulful thing he'd ever seen. He never got tired of listening to the brassy notes, the soft purr, the pure wail of Race's trumpet. Their apartment was always filled with music – whether from Race or from the stereo – and Spot loved it that way. Of course he loved the live version of Race's music better, but the recordings were nice when they were separated.

He also never tired of seeing his boyfriend sitting alone on stage with his trumpet glowing in the light of a soft spotlight, or sitting in a line of other tux-wearing trumpets in the philharmonic, or sitting on their bed while the moonlight danced over his bare chest and shimmered over the silver horn – it gave Spot a feeling that even he could not put into words. It swelled up from his stomach, curled around his chest, and seized his throat until tears prickled in his eyes.

He had decided that the best feeling in the world was trudging up to the apartment after a rough day at work and hearing the soft strains of trumpet drifting down the stairwell. The promise that Race was inside, waiting for Spot to get home, kept Spot from committing mass murder multiple times a day.

Race could manipulate music the way he could push Spot's buttons or tug on his heartstrings - with a gentle, sensual, practiced ease. Every finger's pressure on the valves might as well be pulling the corresponding lever in Spot's head, because all Race had to do was play and Spot couldn't stay mad, couldn't keep silent, couldn't stay away. Whenever Race played, his emotions leaked into the music until it seemed like the world had created a soundtrack so that everyone could hear what he was feeling.

But Spot loved it most when Race played live in their apartment. Even if he was just warming up, even if he kept making mistakes while he practiced a piece for the philharmonic, Spot preferred it over any fancy concert.

Because that music was _his_ – his and Race's. He didn't have to share the sound – it was as if Race was only playing for him. And sometimes, Race did play for him. It was in those moments that Spot realized he wanted to live like that forever.

So he bought a ring.

&&&

A/N: Well? I know there was no plot or dialogue, and I hope that didn't make it too boring. I just wanted to explore their relationship, and also Race's music. _Feedback please? I have a couple other chapters like this, and I'd like to know if I need to make them more interesting._

Now, to my lovely reviewers: **xoborogrlxo** (I'm so glad you liked this chapter! Thanks for the detailed review, and I promise, there will soon be more exposition as to what prompted that incident!), **Shi** (long time no see! It's good to hear from you, and I'm glad you still like the story!), **Rustie73** (three reviews! I love you! I'm so happy not only that I made your favorites list, but that you think Race and Spot are both IC. Thanks!). Y'all are the best!

I head off to college Friday morning, so we'll see if I get another chapter posted before then. Wish me luck!


	12. Next ExGirlfriend

A/N: Wonder of wonders, I'm ALIVE! I know, right? But college has a way of sapping free time and story-writing drive. So consequently, this is the first chapter in months. However, I have two more already written, which couldn't be posted earlier due to chronological significance. But, with this chapter up and running, they should be up in the usual time frame - a weekish? My apologies for the long wait, and please do stick around, even though I so mistreat you, all my lovely readers!

* * *

Spot decided that time destroyed book signings. He was always curious about just who read his books, and it always boosted his ego a little bit to lounge in all the adoration. But after two hours of fake smiles and pretending to care about who he addressed his signature to, Spot was ready to slit the throat of the next camera-happy fan.

Taking a deep breath, he cracked his knuckles and reached for the next book on the table. "Who did you say this is for?" he asked wearily.

A pale arm with long blue fingernails slid the book in front of him. "I didn't. It's Raphaela…" a low voice purred.

Spot looked up, interested in spite of himself. A thin woman was leaning on the other side of the table, bracing herself so that Spot had an ample view of her bosom. She had long dark hair and was wearing some sort of corset-y thing that Spot wouldn't normally approve of, but had to admit sort of worked on her.

"Raphaela." Spot murmured, scrawling his signature on the title page. "Did you like the book?"

"I've never read any of your books."

Spot didn't quite know what to say to that. "Remind me again why I'm signing this book for you then?"

"I've never seen or heard of you before, but when I saw you in here today, I just thought you were someone I could have good sex with. So even if I had to buy some shitty book, I'd take the chance." She let one corner of her mouth creep upwards.

Unsure whether to be flattered or pissed, Spot settled for raising an eyebrow. "This is supposed to entice me?"

The woman shrugged, but didn't try to hide her smugness. "Is it working?"

Spot was surprised to note that it was. He didn't know whether it was the idea that she wanted him just as a normal insanely model-type attractive person instead of as the great writer Spot Conlon whose work needed to be fanatically praised, or that she was blunt enough to show him her only motives, or just that she was attractive and he was horny.

Spot frowned at the table for a moment, then glanced at his watch. "I have to go to the bathroom," he said deliberately, cocking an eyebrow. "I might be in there for a while."

Her face perfectly serene, Raphaela nodded. "I see. Well, perhaps I'll see you sometime soon then?"

Feeling a smirk of his own growing, Spot shrugged. "I'd like that."

With that, he signaled his publicist and sent an apologetic smile to the next person in line. Then he easily slid from behind the table, cracked his back, and strolled easily for the men's room.

Feeling the adrenaline rush through his veins, Spot was reminded of how much he'd enjoyed The Game. It had been a long time since he'd depended on random hook-ups to satisfy his sex drive, but the exhilaration of the chase was still as strong as it had been in the days pre-Race. Spot's face quirked momentarily, but he wiped the expression away with an annoyed hand. That train of thought would kill any libido he'd worked up, and that would just _suck_.

Pushing open the door, he ran a slightly nervous hand through his hair, and leaned against a sink. Moments later, a blue-nailed hand twisted the door handle and stiletto boots sauntered through the door. The lock clicked into place.

Spot smirked and raised an eyebrow. "Well. Fancy meeting you here."

Raphaela pushed him back against the wall. "Less talk, more sex."

Ignoring the guilty twinge of his wailing conscience, Spot dragged his shirt over his head, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Later that night, Spot quietly slipped into bed, moving carefully so as not to wake Race, who was curled up and sleeping peacefully. In the dark silence, Spot slid over and ran a soft hand over his partner's bare shoulder. He pressed a light kiss on the pale skin before letting his forehead rest briefly on the same spot. "I'm sorry…" he mouthed silently against Race's shoulder blade.

After a moment, he sighed and pulled away, rolling onto his back. Race moaned slightly and stretched out an unconscious hand, feeling for Spot. When his questing hand located Spot's chest, he rolled over and nestled into his partner's side, flopping a proprietary arm over his hip. Then he sighed contentedly and began to snore.

Spot laid awake, staring at the ceiling for the rest of the night.

* * *

A/N: Well? Was it worth the wait? Probably not. But now that I've got this chapter in there, I can post the next two chapters that have been sitting around for a while. So don't desert me, please!

Thanks to the lovely: -'0'EmeraldEyes'0'-, xoborogrlxo, Shi, MyKa HoLLy, Tess, Rustie73, Laces, and HotSpotSlingShot, for all the reviews, encouragement, and death threats. Clearly, they worked! Keep it up.


	13. Silent Night

A/N: So a little over a week, but I had a big paper due. Sorry... Anyway, this chapter is in response to the sad reviews from last chapter. So be happy, Spot's not entirely a bitch.

* * *

Anthony Higgins slowly awoke to the feeling that something was not right. It took his sleep-drugged brain a second to fill in what the problem was – about as long as it took him to pry open his gummy eyelids.

His brain and his eyes figured out what was wrong at about the same time.

Spot was gone.

After that realization, Race's brain worked a great deal faster, and he was able to rub the sleep from his eyes. Indeed, the covers were thrown back on the other side of the bed, the hollow where Spot's head usually rested on the pillow was empty, and the mattress was cold under his questing fingers. Confused but not unduly worried, Race rolled over and squinted at the neon green numbers of his bedside clock. "Four o'fucking clock." He muttered. _What the hell?_

He struggled into something vaguely resembling a sitting position and rubbed his eyes again. Stupid Spot. Now Race wouldn't be able to go back to sleep without knowing what his boyfriend was doing. Thoroughly huffy, Race kicked out from under the sheets, shoved his feet into his slippers, and stood. After a minute in the freezing air of a New York morning, he dragged the duvet off the bed and wrapped it around his body before shuffling quietly out of the bedroom.

He found Spot in the kitchen, but hesitated to disturb him. Spot was wrapped in his robe and curled up in what looked like a horribly uncomfortable position in the window seat, his reading glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose. The gray morning sky was enough to light the notebook page in Spot's lap, but it cast shifting shadows over the hard planes of his face. The robe had dropped open slightly, revealing a swathe of Spot's marble skin from neck to mid-belly.

Spot himself seemed unaware of Race's presence in the doorway. He was scribbling intently in his notebook – drawing lines to connect ideas, adding footnotes, cramming extra sentences into the margins – and sipping his mug of coffee.

Race had to smile. Not only did Spot look gorgeous in the newborn light, but the mug in his hand had been a gag gift from Race on their very first Christmas as a couple. It proudly proclaimed "I 3 my boyfriend" in big bubble letters with big cartoon kissy-lips all over it. He hadn't thought that Spot would actually use it. The fact that he did made Race feel oddly sentimental and loving. It had to be the dorkiest mug ever, but just watching him sip meditatively from it was enough to put a soft smile on Race's lips.

When he had originally started off on his quest, Race had been planning to gripe at Spot and drag him back to bed, but now he abandoned that idea and instead leaned against the doorjamb and watched his boyfriend.

This wasn't the way Spot usually wrote. Normally, he typed in spurts on his laptop, or sat for hours fiddling with one or two sentences. There were always large amounts of unsmoked cigarettes and curse words involved, and he seemed to spend more time rewriting than putting down anything new.

But at sometime after four o'clock in the morning on a random Thursday, Spot was awake and writing like a maniac. Occasionally he stopped to chew on the end of his pen, or cross something out, but most of the time he was scribbling away. The intense look on his face captivated Race, and reminded him exactly how gorgeous his boyfriend was. As Spot wrinkled his forehead and flipped back and forth between pages, Race felt his fingers twitch with the need to play the music in his head.

There was something so raw about Spot like this. His hair was greasy and tangled from running his fingers through it, his nails were bitten down to the quick, and though Race's eyes were boring holes into the side of his head, he didn't even notice. Which was surprising – Race had only managed to take Spot by surprise one other time, and he had been sleeping off a transatlantic flight then, so it didn't even count.

However, the thought of sneaking up on him and shouting "Boo!" in his ear never crossed Race's mind. A shock in itself, that. Breaking Spot's concentration when he was like this could be fatal for Race, Spot, his writing, or potentially all three.

Race could tell that Spot had really opened himself up. It was as if the core Spot had come out to tell this story. And the core Spot was the person Race loved most on the entire earth. Really loved.

They had been saying 'I love you' for months now – since before they'd moved in together. They'd been saying it for so long, it had gotten to be habit – said without thinking. But at moments like this, Race was reminded that he _did_ love Spot. He was reminded _why_ he loved Spot. He was reminded just _how much_ he loved Spot. And that was the best feeling in the world.

So despite the fact that both of them had to get up and go to work in a few hours, he stayed in the doorway and watched his boyfriend write, until Spot showed signs off coming back to the world. Then he sneaked back into bed and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, a cold body slipped under the covers next to him, and an ink-stained hand wrapped around his chest. Still pretending to be asleep, Race turned and buried his face in Spot's shoulder. Smiling to himself, he inhaled the soft scent of coffee off his boyfriend's skin, and drifted off to sleep.

At least until their alarm went off, twenty minutes later.

* * *

A/N: Well? Am I forgiven? The next chapter will be up probably on Thursday. There's a chance that it could be sooner, but I'm going into finals, so it's sketchy. And you can expect lots of cheese and sappiness, as the Christmas season is ever more upon us. So review, please - finals are going to be bad and I need some encouragement... 


	14. So Leave Yourself Intact

A/N: Ah, finals. How I hate you. How I hate myself for not studying for you more. Crap. Oh well, it's only first semester, right? I'll just keep telling myself that... Anyway, I thought perhaps some reviews would make me feel a little better, so here's the next chapter! Enjoy...

* * *

Spot sighed and readjusted his messenger bag as the train shook itself into motion. Today had been shitty and it wasn't going to get any better. Not only had he spent his entire day reading crummy, grammatically incorrect stories and dealing with an inept secretary, but his bag was stuffed full with what were undoubtedly more painfully bad manuscripts, he wouldn't be able to write anything himself, and his apartment was empty.

It had been empty for more than a week now, ever since… ever since The Fight. Ever since Spot had watched his comments strike home on Race's face and then watched Race's back walk out the door. Ever since he had come home to a half-empty closet and a ransacked CD collection. Ever since he had screwed his life over.

After that it had only been microwaved dinners, and long nights spent staring at his computer screen. He couldn't even bear to play any of the few CD's Race had left behind – any music brought back so many memories that it was physically painful.

Spot didn't know what was worse. Seeing things in the apartment that he and Race had bought together or seeing the spaces where they had been. Yossarian's dilemma had nothing on poor Spot's personal Catch-22.

And the worst thing was that it wasn't a Catch-22 at all. Spot knew the way out. All he had to do was find Race and apologize – even easier, he could just call and do it right then. His cell phone was out and his finger was poised over the keypad before the thought even finished itself.

But then he stopped, thought for a minute, and put the phone away. He couldn't do it. Couldn't take back all the hateful words he'd said. Couldn't admit he had been wrong. Couldn't confess that he needed Race. Because there was the horrible possibility that Race wouldn't care, had moved on, didn't need Spot like Spot needed him.

So Spot spent the rest of the ride home gazing morosely out at the black walls of the subway tunnel. His brain tormented him with images of Race kissing someone else, with the noise of Race's harshest laughter, with the scent of Race's aftershave.

When his stop finally arrived, Spot was off the train like a shot and climbing quickly towards the surface. It was all he could do not break out and sprint straight home. As it was, he barely kept himself at a pace that could be classified as a 'walk'.

But he stopped sharp after he turned the corner onto his street. Because there, standing on the corner was a short man with wavy dark hair and a dark pea coat. Even though the man was facing the other direction, Spot knew who it was.

Picking up his pace again, Spot hurried towards Racetrack, readying his apology as he went. He couldn't believe Race had come back – that he couldn't stand the separation either. And then Race turned, and Spot nearly cried.

Because it wasn't Race. It _was _a short Italian man, but he had a receding hairline and a handlebar mustache. Definitely not Race.

Furious with himself, Spot had to turn around and walk in the other direction until he got his temper under control. Of course Race wouldn't stand outside waiting for him. Of course Race wouldn't apologize. Of course Race wouldn't be the first to break. Spot would have to be the bigger man.

He smiled at that, because he knew that admitting he was wrong and that he needed Race was not being the bigger man. It was being weak and selfish. But if it meant an end to this hell, he would do it.

Digging his phone out of his pocket, Spot flipped it open and jabbed a finger at the '1' button. Race's cell number immediately dialed itself, and Spot bit at a nail while he impatiently waited for the voicemail to pick up – knowing Race would see his name on caller ID and let it ring.

Then there was a soft click and the voice that Spot had missed so desperately for a week and a half began to speak, detailing the familiar message about leaving name and number and such after the beep.

And Spot didn't know what to say. So he started at the beginning. "Hey. Er... you probably know why I'm calling. But in case you're being obscenely block-headed again, I'm calling to apologize for what happened the other night." He paused for a second to let himself into the building, and to gather his thoughts. "I didn't mean what I said about not needing you, about your trumpet being stupid, about being better off on my own. I was just saying it to piss you off – I guess I did a pretty good job of that, huh?"

He laughed quietly, and scrubbed a tired hand across his face "And you know I'm not good at this apology shit, but I'm trying, okay? So come home, I'll do a better job in person, I promise. I really am sorry, and I…" Spot trailed off, halfway up the steps.

There was trumpet music floating down the stairwell. He snapped his phone shut and began to run.

* * *

A/N: Yay! Happiness! Please review, I've been waiting to post this chapter FOREVER. It was the fourth one I wrote... haha. 


	15. My Bloody Valentine

A/N: Holy shit. An update! Please try not to die of shock. Things have just been crazy - I'm sure you can all sympathize. However, I just recently reread sloanne's story "Everything You've Done Wrong" (read it, love it) and am currently on a Sprace kick again. So behold the first of many mopey chapters to be posted - I'm feeling kind of bad for myself after the guy I'd been involved with broke things off, so I'm really feeling the angsty writing at the moment, haha. Enjoy, for there is much angstage.

* * *

Race desperately waved his shot glass, trying to steal the bartender's attention from the skimpily-clad college co-ed he was helping at the moment. She wouldn't sleep with the guy anyway, so why couldn't he just do his job and serve the goddamn drinks? Race couldn't help it if there were tons of people there, he wanted to be drunk, and there was no way some stupid witch was going to prevent that.

Finally, he managed to get the distracted bartender's attention with a twenty loosely proffered between his fingers. He didn't even care about the extra money, it wasn't wasted if it enabled him to be.

Race _hated _Valentine's Day. And he hated himself for hating Valentine's Day. But he hated Spot for making him hate it even more. So the only real thing to do was get slobbering drunk and forget all about it.

Forget about last year, when Spot had bribed the owner to turn off all the lights in the restaurant and to surround their table with sparklers while they ate desert. Or christening their apartment, three years ago today. Or their first V-day as a couple, when they'd had to postpone their celebrations until the weekend, due to asshole teachers scheduling midterms all that week. Or any of the other painful memories associated with February 14th.

The second his drink appeared on the bar in front of him, Race downed it without a pause and handed it straight back to the bartender. It was so stereotypical to hate this day, now that he was single, but what could he do but hate it? All around him were sloppy couples and vivid memories, until he couldn't escape the pain around or inside him.

"Hey are you gonna do your job or do I hafta climb back there and get my own drink??

Race scrunched his eyes closed. Of course. Of course, out of all the bars in NYC, Sean Conlon would pick this one to patronize tonight. And there he was, in all his faded glory, leaning over the bar, three seats down. His collared shirt was rumpled, his hair was greasy, and there was a cigarette stashed behind his right ear. Race felt a sick sort of joy in knowing that his ex wasn't coping any better than he was, himself.

But then he would remember that he, Anthony Luis Higgins, had done the breaking up, and should therefore really be feeling guilty for causing them both such trouble. It seemed as if he had made the wrong choice.

Or had he? The moment their eyes met, Spot's gray gaze narrowed and his familiar mouth tightened. That trademark eyebrow climbed slowly towards his hairline. And then, worst of all, he turned away.

Closing his eyes to conquer the pain from the snub, Race let out the breath he'd unknowingly been holding and turned to the next drink in line. He should be pacing himself, he should he tasting his drinks, should be drinking water. But he wasn't. What he was, was holding off the anguish the only way he knew. He was getting drunk - hard and fast.

Race lost some time then, and suddenly it was forty minutes later and he was leaving with a blonde guy who looked at least five years his junior, with no idea how that had happened. But he was determined to run with it, V-day didn't have to be a total waste, did it?

On their way to the door, Race purposely led them right past Spot's barstool. And god help him, he looked. Even with a young college student in a leather jacket fawning all over him, he couldn't keep his eyes away from Spot.

And so it was that he saw the pain scrawl across his ex's face; so clear, so intense that Race immediately felt guilty, even in his drunken stupor. He wasn't the only one trapped in the hell that was Valentine's Day, wasn't the only one wishing maybe that things could go back. And he'd just hammered the nails into Spot's coffin lid.

So after a brief detour to NYU, Race made his way back to his apartment, alone. With a groan, he peeled his clothes off on the way to the bedroom, leaving them in a trail from the door to his bed. Flopping more across the covers than in them, he let his tired eyes drift closed. Maybe he'd call Spot later. Maybe he wouldn't. They both had done each other so many irreconcilable hurts that it would probably take a longer time than the past two months to recuperate enough to try and maintain any sort of civil relationship.

Time. They needed time before they tried again.

But goddamn if it wasn't time that was killing Race.

* * *

A/N: Well? Love it? Hate it? Please tell me, I miss you all so very much! 


	16. You Will Be My Ain True Love

A/N: Another chapter! Yay! I'm pretty damn inspired at the moment, but don't have a lot of time on my hands to write, so we'll see how much I manage to get out. But keep your eyes peeled... I've noticed that I seem to write primarily from Race's perspective, so I'm trying to balance that out a bit. There should be some Spotty chapters coming your way soon!

Oh, and for the Italian bits, I figure you can pretty much tell what they're saying... It's not hard to figure out.

* * *

Race couldn't decide if he wanted to cry or hit something. At the moment, he was considering doing both. However, he seriously doubted that giving in to those urges would really help his case. So instead, he clenched his jaw and let his mind wander. 

For about thirty seconds.

"Anthony Higgins! Are you hearing a word leaving my lips?"

"Si Nonna." He sighed.

On holidays, the entire Higgins clan convened at the family bistro for dinner, which usually ended up averaging about forty or fifty crazy Italians. Unfortunately, this year, Cousin Sal had slipped up and asked Race about Spot.

Bad move.

Because then Isabella Higgins, the family matriarch and Race's grandmother wanted to know just who this Sean Conlon character was. The rest of the family had been aware of Race's sexuality and nearly two-year relationship with Spot, and though they may not have liked it, they knew better than to mention it around Nonna Isabella. Old Roman Catholic beliefs did not mesh well with homosexuality. And now they were seeing the extent of that difference.

So, because of Sal's slip-up, Race was forced to sit through his grandmother's tirade while the rest of the family sat awkwardly by. None of his relatives who were okay with his sexuality were brave enough to stand up to the old battle-axe, and none of the braver family members were okay enough with his relationship to bail him out.

Suddenly, the trilling of Race's cell phone cut through Isabella's words, and the entire room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Shrugging apologetically, Race flipped the mobile open and turned away. "Hello?"

"Heya Stubs."

Race frowned. "Vince? What are you trying to pull? Somebody'll hear you!"

His cousin sighed. "Relax, short stuff - I'm in the john. Thought maybe you needed an excuse to scram."

Momentarily silenced by relief, Race closed his eyes and crossed himself. "Thanks man."

"Now look, this don't mean I'm okay with… what you're doing. But we all know how bad Nonna can get. So get smart, and beat it."

Race rolled his eyes. "Right. I owe you."

Vince snorted. "Gonna collect, too."

Snapping his phone shut, Race faced his family. "I'm sorry, that was my concert master. They've called an extra sectional and I need to be there yesterday. Mi dispiace…" Without waiting for a response, he gathered his jacket and left.

The train ride home passed in a blur of negative emotions that Race didn't even recognize until he got back to the apartment and his hands were shaking too badly to maneuver the key into the lock. Then he had to spend precious minutes exposed outside breathing deeply before he could face that bland expanse of wood.

Finally, he managed to get himself inside the apartment, though he had use both hands to maneuver the key into the lock. Immediately, his negative emotions diffused into the open space of the apartment and it was somewhat easier to breathe. He no longer felt like crushing something between his fists, at least.

"Race? That you?"

A further blanket of calm dropped around Race's shoulders as Spot's voice floated out from the living room. Suddenly he was just tired. Tired of everything. He shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall straight to the floor. He trudged towards the living room, stepping out of his shoes as he went.

Spot was curled up on the couch, reading over some manuscripts. He looked warm and content, beneath the folds of the ridiculous old smoking jacket that Race had given him last Christmas, with an ink smudge on the tip of his slender nose, and a steaming cup of chai tea tipping absently towards the floor in his free hand. Over the rims of his glasses, Spot's piercing gray eyes flicked over Race's drooping shoulders, haggard expression, and white-knuckled hands. "C'mere."

A half-hearted smile flickered at the corner of Race's lips. Spot never wasted breath on obvious remarks like "are you alright?" when it was plain that he wasn't, or "didn't it go well?" when it clearly didn't. It was times like these that he really valued that economy.

So instead of painfully rehashing the agonizing night, Race burrowed into the comforting warmth of his boyfriend, and let Spot soothe away his anger with a soft hand lightly stroking his hair. Breathing in the musty smell of the smoking jacket, and feeling the warmth of the body beneath it, Race could almost forget the unpleasant events that had driven him to this hide-out. Almost.

It was only when his watch alarm woke him at 5:15 am that he realized he'd fallen asleep. Rubbing the horrible crick from his neck, Race carefully extricated himself from Spot's unconscious embrace, and surveyed his dozing boyfriend.

Spot's head was resting the back of the couch at what looked like a horribly uncomfortable angle, his mouth had dropped open in slumber, and his heavy breathing could almost be called a snore.

But it was at this exact moment that Race decided he was going to marry Sean Anthony Conlon. Maybe not now, maybe not later, but by God, it was going to happen sometime. And if his family didn't like it, well they could go to hell.

Race smiled all the way in to work.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts? Yes? Love me, please... 


	17. Jellicle Cats

A/N: After a long dry spell, I am back in action! Yes ma'am, I'm done with my first year of college and have lots of time this summer to write, so we might actually be back to the once a week updates! Keep your eyes peeled!

* * *

"…and we are truly very sorry, Mr. Higgins, but at this time we do not feel that you are completely aware of all the responsibilities associated with being a father to a real child. It seems to us that the careers you and your partner hold would not facilitate the addition of a child to your family. It is with deepest regret that we must decline your application for-" 

Race had to take several deep breaths before he removed his finger from the stop button of the answering machine. It was the fourth time he'd listened to the message, and he still hadn't made it to the end yet. His problem wasn't one of denial. Nor was he too close to tears to continue. No, it was neither of those.

His problem was that he couldn't take one more second of that smug voice telling him that he didn't have what it took to be a father. That because he was a musician, he wasn't allowed to have a child.

In the past, he'd been prejudiced against for being Italian, for being poor, for being gay, for being young. But never had he been shut out for playing music. Apparently music was now synonymous with drugs, rampant unsafe sex, eating disorders, abortions, Mad Cow Disease, global warming, ENRON, 9/11…

Perhaps it would be understandable if Race was a street busker, or on the road, or working three jobs. But no, he was the third-chair trumpet in the New York Philharmonic, and even if he played jazz clubs sometimes, he had no piercings or tattoos, he didn't smoke, and he had been in a monogamous relationship for the past six years.

His partner for those six years had stormed out after hearing the first three sentences of the message, leaving Race to sort out his feelings alone. Maybe that was best. Spot always talked Race out of blaming himself, and that was frustrating. Even more so when Race could tell that Spot was blaming himself just as much.

Just then, said man clattered into the apartment in a swirl of coats and bags. "Race!" he called, excitement making his voice extra loud. "Race, look!"

Warily, Race climbed to his feet and trudged over to where Spot was staring anxiously at something bundled in his scarf. Something that mewed.

Spot drew a fold of his gray scarf away from the tiny kitten burrowed inside so that Race could better see its striped face. "I found it…" he paused and politely raised one of its legs, "-_him_, by the dumpster outside. No collar, no other cats, nothing."

Hesitantly, Race trailed the back of one finger over the tiny head. "An orphan."

The kitten mewed.

"It's almost too coincidental to ignore," Spot continued, eyes only on his precious burden.

Race frowned. "But we don't know if he's been spayed or has fleas or is housetrained!"

Raising an eyebrow, Spot carried the kitten towards the kitchen. "We'll take him to the vet in the morning. Right now he needs some food and a bed."

"But-"

"Race." Spot interrupted, "he needs a home, and we have one. Where are your paternal instincts?"

Stung, Race strode over to his boyfriend and gently removed the tiny cat. "I was _going_ to say that he's got to be thoroughly bathed if you think he's going anywhere near our bed tonight." Lifting away the folds of the scarf, Race discovered the kitten had no tail. "A manx. How cute!" He scrunched his nose up and touched it softly to the kitten's, before running warm water in the sink.

Spot smiled softly and kissed Race's cheek as he headed towards the bedroom. "We can pick up litter and food and all those supplies tomorrow." He paused, and smiled softly back at his boyfriend. "I love you, you know."

Race grinned back at him over the kitten's head. "I know. I love you too."

* * *

As Spot unbuttoned his dress shirt, he crossed the bedroom to peek out at the progress in the kitchen.

Race was up to his elbows in suds, the squalling kitten cradled gently in his hands. Spot could hear him quietly humming - sounded like the Beatles.

Watching his boyfriend laugh at the sodden cat, Spot smiled to himself, and fished into his pocket for the receipt from the animal shelter where he'd bought the kitten. Then he carefully tore it up into tiny pieces and threw them in the wastebasket.

* * *

A/N: Well? You know the drill. I've missed you guys so give me some lovin please! 


	18. The Getaway

A/N: Yes, another chapter! I needed a less happy one to buffer between the fluff that I seem to spout these days. This popped out in like fifteen minutes, and I've only read it through once or twice.

* * *

It had been nearly three weeks since the night Race had packed his stuff and left. Perhaps some would consider it sad that Spot still hadn't touched the chaos strewn about the apartment. It looked like someone had robbed the place – CDs and books strewn all about, big empty spots where art had hung, closet doors gaping open. 

The mess was so bad Spot hadn't even attempted to keep it from getting worse. When he came home from work, he dropped his clothes on the floor, and leftover cardboard containers from his TV dinners spilled over the garbage can. It was disgusting, yes, he knew that. But it was better than trying to deal with the aftermath of Race's departure.

Spot knew he was harboring residual feelings and unresolved emotions and all that bullcrap, but really, wasn't it enough that he was still getting up in the morning? He was coping. Maybe he wasn't flourishing, maybe he wasn't moving on, but at least he was coping. That was a baby step in the right direction, wasn't it?

With a sigh, he rubbed an ink-stained hand across his eyes, and contemplated the coffee cup he held. _4:42 am. What a godforsaken hour to be drinking coffee. _It was from MacDonalds, it was a drip, and it was cold. He chucked it in the general direction of the trashcan, ignoring the splatter of watery brown liquid on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. He could buy another one. God only knew how many he'd drunk in the last three weeks.

He survived on that coffee now, the cheap stuff poured straight from the same machine as the soft serve, that tasted like bathwater and had about as much kick as whipped cream. But at the rate he was drinking it, if it had been his normal brew, he would most likely have overdosed from caffeine six or seven cups ago.

But it still managed to chase away the ghosts that crept out every time Spot tried to sleep. And those ghosts were really what imprisoned him in this dirty, disheveled apartment. Just as he would begin to drift off, there would be a familiar weight on the bed, and he would shoot awake, only to find it empty save for moonlight. Or he'd fool himself into thinking his wasn't the only body heat beneath the covers, and the disappointment when his questing hand found nothing but sheets was enough to banish any chance of dreamy oblivion.

His conscious mind was numb to the pain; he was so good at doing that. He'd been shutting down emotion since before he'd ever met Race. But on the edges of sleep, when his daytime mind submitted itself to the terrible whim of his subconscious, the cracks began to appear. He paid a price for the hours of relative lack of feeling during the day.

And so he was only coping, just barely scraping by. He wasn't a wreck – he'd even gone into work the morning after Race had left – and he wasn't some pitiful sob story. Anyone who treated him as such served as a wonderful target for as many of his bottled-up feelings as he could vent before someone dragged him off the fool.

He just had to keep his act together, his tenuous hold on the pieces of his heart, taking everything moment by moment. It would get easier as time passed, and Race became a memory, a piece of history, relegated to the least-used corners of his mind. That looked-for peace hadn't come yet, so Spot was forced to trudge on, weary and sad, but resolute. He could survive Anthony Higgins, could eventually turn his life back into something worth living. That was what kept him going. He would be alright. Eventually.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so it's not as complete as I would normally like, but I feel like the longer it gets, the whinier it gets. I was really just trying to portray that sort of "held together with duct tape" feeling that frequents my post-breakup months. Please do tell me what you think... And look out for next week's slightly slightly happier addition! 


	19. My Strongest Suit

A/N: Okay so this is not the chapter that I originally had planned to post - aka the long delay. But I was inspired and nothing else quite fit. So here's a little fanservice for all my loyal readers.

* * *

Anthony Higgins and Sean Conlon were well-known as a couple. So much so, that they had become a staple of the Arts community in Manhattan. Every charity event, every awards banquet, every opening night, every occasion of any repute, Sean and Tony were there. 

They both represented the cream of the crop in their respective fields – Tony was the second chair trumpet in the New York Philharmonic (it was rumored that he'd be up for first chair within months) and had a surprising successful second career in the jazz and swing clubs of Manhattan's underground. And he wasn't even 30 – half the age of his contemporaries.

Sean read manuscripts at a publishing house on the East Side, and his second novel had been phenomenally successful. In just over a week, it had shot to number three on the bestseller's list. In two weeks, it was number one, where it sat comfortably for the next month-and-a-half. He had already been issued an open-ended contract with his own publishing house and his third book was forecast to be released in just over a year.

And to top it off, they were both blessed with good looks that so endeared them to everyone with hormones. Sean was the more obvious beauty, with features so fine that he rivaled Kate Moss, a penchant for loose bohemian clothes and a pout so powerful it gave many a woman (any plenty of men) hot flashes. Tony's look was much more casual, but he had the muscle, glossy curls, and devilish smile to star in every housewife's wet dream from New York to LA and beyond. It was no surprise that they generated plenty of star power (at least by sub-Hollywood standards) among the Arts community.

So when their photographer friend Ryan was tagged to organize a campaign for the Product (RED) charity through the GAP, he asked Tony and Sean if they would pose for the billboard going up in Times Square to advertize the clothing line.

That was the reason, therefore, that at the ungodly hour of 5:30 am on an overcast Sunday morning, Race and Spot were being gelled and buffed and straightened and finally whisked into Wardrobe for the photoshoot. Ryan was already prancing around them, yelling at various assistants while still managing to keep up an all-too-exuberant conversation on his cell phone. He and Race had been friends in college, and when he'd lost an eye in a mugging several years ago, it had been Race and Spot who'd kept vigil in the hospital until his mother could make it up from Arkansas. Needless to say, he was thrilled to be able to shoot his friends for such a prominent campaign.

He wasn't even daunted when Race flipped shit after finding out what he was supposed to be wearing. Or rather, _not _wearing.

"Give them back, Ryan, before I castrate you with this hanger!"

"Nope!" Ryan clicked his Razor shut resolutely. "Sorry Race baby, I've had a vision and you are not allowed to mess it up."

Race scowled and made another dive for the sweatpants clutched gleefully in the photographer's free hand. "I refuse to pose for a picture that the entire city is going to see, without any pants on! Ryan, my mama could see it..."

Ryan's lower lip crept out. "But Toneeeeeeeeeeeeey, your little boxer-briefs are so hot! Please?"

"There aren't any boxer-briefs to _see_!" Race looked down at the underwear - indeed they were much smaller than he was used to, low at the waist and high at the leg, with thick black and gray stripes. He wrapped the folds of his red button-down tigher over his torso, as if covering that would make up for the lack of clothing below. "I look like a cheap hooker!"

Ryan gasped affrontedly. "You look like an _expensive _hooker, thank you very much!"

"You look sexy."

A shiver ran down Race's spine as he turned to face his boyfriend. Spot, unlike Race, sported a pair of jeans and a brown leather belt. And that was it, except for a bit of subtle jewlery. Race realized belatedly that he'd stopped breathing.

Spot grinned and did a little twirl, which effectively wiped Race's mind of anything not related to sex. "You'd never know how much work went into so little... You like?" He grinned at Race, with a distinctively satisfied air. "Of course you like. Want me to help you out with that?"

For a second, Race had no idea what he was talking about, but then Spot's eyes flickered down Race's body, rather pointedly. A small part of his brain was trying very hard to be embarrassed, but his hormones were having none of it.

"Aw guys..." Ryan moaned. "Now we'll never get this shoot done!"

Rather desperately, Race looked between Spot's smirking self and the door. "Fine," he spat at last. "I'll shut up about the underwear if you give us five minutes." He paused and looked at Spot who raised an eyebrow. "Maybe ten." He amended, already dragging his boyfriend out of the room by the beltloop.

Ryan looked torn, but didn't stop them. "Just, just don't... _get _anything... on the clothes, 'kay? _Please_?"

As he was towed through the door, Spot winked over his shoulder at Ryan. "It'll be more like fifteen..."

* * *

And so, when the billboard finally ran a few weeks later, Anthony Higgins was not wearing any pants. He was lying lengthwise along the bottom of the picture, his shirt flopped open and his eyes closed. His mouth was tilted up, because Sean Conlon was sprawled crosswise over him, lips inches away from his boyfriend's. Shirtless, he loomed over Race's still form; only his eyes were open, and his piercing stare was focused straight out of the advertisement. The only color was Race's red shirt and Spot's blue eyes, and the letters spelling out "DESI(RED)" above their entwined bodies. 

In the week after the billboard was posted, combined sales of the (RED) line in NYC's four GAP stores more than doubled.

* * *

A/N: Well? Tell me what you thought! Um, I think the next installement will be a postive(ish) one as well, before we go back to the grindstone. Look out for it next week. 


	20. When I Get Where I'm Going

A/N: Be warned, this chapter is kinda grim, I think I might move the rating up to M, just due to the subject. No sex, no outrageous swearing, just a delicate subject.

* * *

Race cursed and chucked his cell phone across the room. Immediately he sprang up and scooped the pieces back up. After desperately shoving the battery back in, he crossed himself and pressed the power button. "Please work, please work, I'm sorry!"

He breathed a sigh of relief when the light came on, accompanied by the quiet riff of muzak. He immediately punched the number '1' on his speed dial, listen for two seconds and then cursed again. Thankfully, this time he managed to check the impulse to throw it, and instead let it drop back into his pocket. He trudged back to his seat and slumped down.

"Still can't get through?" his stand partner asked, a thin blond named Lars, of all things.

Race shook his head and slumped even further.

Lars smiled a tight smile that contained no humor and shoved his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, me neither." He clenched his jaw and glanced down at the cell phone clutched in his white-knuckled hand. "It's been almost an hour…"

Suddenly there was a muted boom, and the lights flickered ominously. A thin layer of dust drifted down from the ceiling.

When nothing else happened for a moment, everyone hesitantly straightened from wherever they'd instinctively crouched. Someone began crying with great gasping heaves. Race's stomach was trying to claw its way up his esophagus. The lights flickered again.

After it had been quiet for a few minutes or so, Marcia, the birdlike secretary for the Symphony, stuck her head in. "Another plane just hit the second tower…" she stuttered, blinking tearfully at them.

Race's stomach abruptly let go of his throat and freefell back into place. After a moment, he slowly rose to his feet and grabbed his coat.

"Be careful…" Lars called, as Race headed for the door. He knew where Race was going.

Marcia stared at him uncomprehendingly, still blocking the doorway. Without a word, he shouldered past her, and strode quickly down the hallway, shrugging into his coat as he went.

"It's like the end of the world…" Marcia murmured after him, still slumped where he'd shoved her.

The secretary's words only hit Race when he stumbled out onto the street. Smoke and dust clogged the air and papers blew past like the leaves in Central Park. And people screamed. Even this far from the Towers, there was screaming. Had something else happened?

Disoriented by all the noise and debris, it took Race a minute to get his bearings, but soon he was trotting towards the river, against the stream of people.

A policeman grabbed his arm and yelled something unintelligible over the noise, but Race twisted out of his grip. "I have to get… I have… I have to get…" And then he was free, and running, stumbling, staggering down the rubble-strewn street. Dodging deserted cars, his eyes focused only on the street signs, it was several minutes before Race realized what he was seeing.

There were the Twin Towers, a perverted reflection of what they had been that morning. Now they were twisted bits of steel and concrete burning malevolently against the foreboding clouds of the New York skyline. Even from this distance he could see bits of the structures tumbling away, and both towers belched dark smoke from the gaping wounds in their sides.

Horrified and strangely transfixed, Race swayed towards the double maw of fire, so entranced that he actually walked two whole blocks closer than he needed to. It was only when he got close enough to realize that the bits of rubble falling from the Towers were not in fact all rubble, but people leaping to quicker, more merciful deaths than what would be afforded them by smoke inhalation or burning alive, that Race realized where he was.

He wasted another two minutes retching into an alley.

When he finally had control of himself, he wiped his mouth on his dusty coat sleeve and grimly turned his back on the tragedy unfolding behind him, retracing his steps to 44th. This time he took the correct turn and picked up his pace as he hurried down the familiar street.

There. 20 West 44th Street. Small Press Center. The building was still intact, though the power seemed to be off and, like the rest of the street, shell-shocked people were tumbling and scrambling out of it as if the carnage was above them and not a few blocks over.

Race didn't allow a pause for relief at having gotten this far, at seeing the building unhurt. Already, his eyes were desperately scanning the steady stream of people as he shouldered through them.

Getting into the building was practically impossible, so dense was the crush of terrorized people fleeing their jobs. But eventually he managed it, and was able to gain the lobby. He could see a few others like himself, pressed against the walls, frantically searching. But the majority of the space was taken up by the river of people scrambling out from the single stairwell in the building.

It was hopeless, and he realized this, but that fact still didn't stop him from waiting, from looking, from praying.

Suddenly, there was a rumble. It wasn't just the ground, it wasn't only the building. It was the very air trembling and groaning, as the weak, sterile sunlight that somewhat illuminated the crowded lobby dimmed and then vanished. Race could tell he was closer to the Towers now because the booms and screaming were so much louder here. Even so, he could still hear his heart, stuttering out its desperate beats as the world fell down around him.

Some disjointed portion of his brain calmly noted that this time the tremors were lasting too long to be another attack. Outside, he could see people racing by, faces frozen in masks of terror, stumbling and falling because they couldn't tear their eyes from the horror behind them. Then a thick cloud of smoke and ash blasted by, coating the windows in grime and dust - even cracking some of them as bits of debris slammed into the glass panes. Some of the gray cloud swirled in through the perpetually open doors, but still the jostling file of humanity never stopped in its manic quest to escape.

Eventually, the thundering stopped, and the screaming grew distant and strangely muted. People streamed by. Race never glanced at his watch, fearful that the second he took his eyes away from that stairway, he would miss it. So he glared at that doorway as unknown minutes flickered and died on his wristwatch, until his eyes burned and a headache pounded in his skull.

And still he searched.

Then, in a moment so fleeting, so surreal, it happened.

Sean Louis Conlon staggered down the stairs, coated in sweat and grime, but alive and unhurt. Everything seemed strangely silent to Race, passing by in muted slow motion. Spot's eyes were down, he didn't search the room as Race did. Instead he glared at the keypad in his hands, stabbed a single number, moved his lips in a silent prayer, and raised the cell phone to his ear.

The room swayed, and Race realized the silence had been because he'd stopped breathing. He let out a rush of air as Spot's face twisted in anger before he jerked the cell phone away from his ear, closed it, shook it, and flipped it open again, finger going straight back to the same key.

"Sean!" Race called, but his throat was so dry and coated with dust that his voice cracked and the name emerged only as a strangled croak. Again he tried. "Sean!" But the melee around him swallowed the frantic cry. And then Spot was gone, swept out the doors and into the debris and panic that had once been 44th street.

"No…" Race groaned, fighting his way towards the exit. Even in his desperation, he couldn't get through the crowd faster than anyone else - they were all just as hysterical. But then he was through, stumbling onto the street.

Spot was hurrying away, ignoring the thick chunks of ash blowing across his face, cell phone still clutched doggedly in his hand.

"Sean!" Race called again, running now. "SEAN!" he screamed.

And, miracle of miracles, Spot turned, a terrible hope alight on his face. Then he was running too.

Suddenly, the world trembled again, and the air was rent with a terrible groaning noise. The sun disappeared, plunging the street into shadow as the ground leapt and rolled. Again, the cloud of dust and debris roared down the street, knocking Race forward, though he managed to keep his feet.

The entire nation's eyes were glued to the slow crumble of the second tower, save for two pairs - one blue, one brown, that looked only at each other. Spot didn't stop running, and neither did Race, even as they were overtaken by the choking bank of smoke. Race stumbled over a chunk of sidewalk, but then Spot was there, his arm snaking around to stabilize Race's steps, and they fell together.

But though the gritty pavement seemed to leap up and slam into them, it didn't matter because Spot was there and Spot was safe and everything was finally going to be alright. There was dust and grime in Race's mouth when they kissed, but there was just as much in Spot's and that wouldn't have stopped them anyway.

And of the many touching reunions on that day in September, that of the couple lying in a relieved embrace in the middle of 44th street, only four blocks from where so many were dying even at the same moment, was only a small one.

But as tears of thankfulness began to burn behind his eyes, to Anthony Vincent Higgins, the feeling of Spot's arms around him and the familiar curve of his partner's back beneath his dark coat were the only things that mattered.

* * *

A/N: So I really wanted to address how this would have gone for the two of them, so I researched a lot for this chapter to get it as realistic as possible. What did you all think? I was too young and too removed from that day to actually process much of the event until later, so I'm not sure if I got it right. But regardless I really wanted to delve into both the feeling of unreality and the humanity that I feel are both tied to that day, without lingering on the macabre or unspeakable. Thoughts? Please, I know this was a risque chapter, and am curious as to its reception. 


	21. Almost Lover

A/N: Hey, I'm back with another chapter that's a little bit lighter than the last, though the overall tone is the same. So enjoy, this is a chapter that's been eagerly awaited, though I attempted to keep it real as opposed to gratifying.

* * *

Spot had begun to loathe going out in public. At first he had just stopped going out to bars and ordered pay-per-view, spending his weekends camped out in his apartment. But then it had progressed to a dislike of running errands at all - he started ordering everything he needed online. And now it was so bad that even the subway ride to and from work was nearly unbearable. He was turning into a sociopath, a recluse - though his publisher had reported that he'd gained a sort of legendary artsy-hermit reputation that was augmenting his book sales remarkably. But the extra padded paycheck didn't do more than finance Spot's increasingly expensive and eremitic behaviors.

It was just too much to see all the couples wandering around, so blissfully in love. It was actually painful when he noticed a ring sparkling on the fourth finger of someone's left hand. But that feeling when he would see Race walking by, or reading a paper in the subway station, or smoking in front of Starbucks… and then realize that it wasn't Race after all. It would just be someone with dark wavy hair, or the same coat, or wearing that familiar cologne…

God, Spot thought, had a serious vendetta against him.

But here he was, waiting almost nervously in his seat in the Opera House while the last late-comers shuffled excitedly to their seats. The Philharmonic was playing the Peer Gynt Suites, and the tickets had been sold out for months, but Spot hadn't gone through life without figuring out which strings he could pull.

When the musicians finally filed on stage, Spot's world narrowed down to a short tuxedoed figure sauntering towards the trumpet section. That familiar stride singled Race out like a floodlight in Antarctica, and Spot absorbed every minute muscle movement as if they could tell him what Anthony Higgins had been up to.

In a way they could. The perpetual worry line creasing his brow spoke of unconscious bad humor and a blossoming headache. The dark circles shadowing his eyes meant he'd been drinking too much again, and sleeping too little. The slump in his shoulders said he wouldn't play his best tonight , and knew it.

All these things together told the little spark of terrible hope growing in Spot's chest to flicker upwards, fanning into a flame of glorious heat and nervousness. He twitched in his seat, anxious for the concert to be over, even though the maestro hadn't even made his entrance. Two hours from now, Spot would be out of his misery - either because he was back with Race, or because he could never be back with Race. Two hours of hell.

And they were hell, those two hours. When the brass played, they flew by too fast for Spot to feel Race's music, and when it was the woodwinds or strings, Spot could have screamed in frustration. Why were those movements always so interminably long?

But at last, the orchestra stood for their final bows, and the crowd roared to their feet. Spot clapped along with the rest of them, praying Race would look over into his box. But no, Race wasn't even scanning the crowd. He was watching the conductor and fidgeting with the valves on his trumpet, one eyebrow raised.

When the maestro finally left the stage for the last time and the musicians began gathering their instruments and music without Race noticing him, Spot grew desperate. In a last ditch attempt, he stuck two fingers in his mouth, and voiced the ear-splitting whistle he'd made infamous at football games in college.

Race went still, back turned to Spot, but no longer making progress towards the door. Then impossibly he shook his head, and started forward again.

Disbelieving what was happening, Spot tried the whistle again, earning him some dirty looks from his fellow audience members, but it had the desired effect on Race, who dropped his music and turned. He shaded his eyes with a hand and peered into the audience, and then Spot realized that with all the bright lights, Race probably couldn't see him.

But regardless, Race's eyes found Spot's habitual box, and after staring emotionlessly for a moment, he pointed clearly to the left. At first he made no move to leave, but then he blinked and picked up his scattered music and left the stage.

Ten minutes later, Spot was waiting impatiently around the left side of the theatre, where the stage door intermittently belched musicians. Lars had strolled out with his boyfriend Chris, nearly tripping over his own feet when he noticed Spot slouched against the wall, the collar of his coat pulled close around his face - both due to the cold and the nervous flush that colored his checks in the most embarrassing way.

But then the door released Race, whose tux jacket had disappeared along with the knot in his bowtie, but had managed to compose his face. He turned to Spot, but didn't move any closer. He just stood and regarded him silently, trumpet case in one hand, backlit by the industrial sheen of the overhead light.

Spot drank Race in with his eyes, gorging himself on the one thing he had spent almost the entire last year avoiding at all costs. Finally, he dredged up the courage to break the silence. "I'm sorry. I want you back." Incredulous, he blinked. Where had that come from?! He'd been intending to compliment Race on the concert, but his mouth had run away with him.

Race noticed Spot's self-directed shock, and the corner of his mouth jerked. "I've missed you," he admitted quietly.

Sweet relief flooded Spot's veins and he smiled, his first genuine smile in what felt like forever. "God, have I missed you too," he mumbled, pushing off the wall and towards Race.

But the other man halted him with a half-raised hand. "But I can't take you back, Sean. As much as I've missed you, and waited for this, I can't just pick things up again. We split up for a reason, remember?"

Spot closed his eyes and hitched a painful breath. "Okay," he paused again. "Okay."

They stood silently, Spot staring at the wet street, Race staring at Spot.

"You have to understand Sean, I don't work that way - forgiving at the drop of a hat. You can't expect me to move back in with you just because you've showed up out of the blue."

Hunching his shoulders, Spot nodded and turned away, striding quickly for the lights of the street. Desolation dropped over his shoulders like the Earth had done to Atlas, but there was a quiet resignation in the set of his jaw, and his frame was devoid of anger. He understood.

"But maybe I'd be open to going for coffee…"

Spot froze midstep, refusing to turn, to hope.

Race managed a half-smile, as he meandered down the alley. "Just because it takes me a while to get back into the game doesn't mean I don't want to play at all, Spot. You should know better."

"I do, Race. I do." Smiling a half-smile of his own, Spot reached down to take Race's trumpet case. When Race wouldn't release it, he didn't let go either. So as they wandered into the sopping Manhattan night, the trumpet case swung gently between them, their hands touching ever-so-slightly on the handle.

* * *

A/N: Well? Will someone actually tell me what they thought about this chapter? My review box was sadly empty after last chapter... Was it too much? Help! 


	22. Across the Universe

A/N: OMG, I'm actually updating! Who would have thought? So sorry it's taken so long, sophomore year of college is crazy, and I wasn't very happy with any of my other chapters. But I think I like this one well enough to post. I really hope that someone out there is still reading...

* * *

Sean Conlon sighed heavily, and flopped back on his hotel bed. He'd been in England for nearly a week now, and as much as he loved the country, something was missing. A short, trumpet-playing, Italian something.

It was so stupid, too. He'd been looking forward to this trip as a way to get some space. He and Race had been at each other's throats recently – and he'd thought it would be nice to get out of the apartment. Privately, Spot had been considering this trip as a trial run, to determine what life was like without Anthony Higgins.

He had quickly come to the conclusion that it _sucked_. However amazing England was, however nice his hotel room, however much he enjoyed seeing his book in the window displays of bookshops – he couldn't stop thinking about Race. He kept thinking that he'd have to bring him here one day – maybe for an anniversary or something – but then he'd remember that they weren't precisely on speaking terms.

And God, that was a downer. He really had to paste a smile on his face whenever someone came forward to have him sign a copy of his book. Even when he was reading excerpts to a small crowd in the back of a shop – something he normally loved to do – all he could remember was what Race had said about this part or that. It was like being dragged through hell and then informed that you'll have to do it again tomorrow – and to smile this time.

He rolled over, grabbed the TV remote, and proceeded to spend the next hour and a half cruising through the 280 channels that his hotel supplied – which he supposed was cool, but most of them where in some other language. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore, and had to turn off the boob tube.

And for once, he, Sean Louis Conlon, had no desire to write his feelings down. The idea of dragging his notebook out of his carry-on, or even the little one in his back pocket was unexpectedly loathsome. So instead he settled for ordering room service.

His will finally broke in the intervening time. By the time the bellhop arrived with the tray, Spot was anxiously listening to the familiar ring of their apartment's phone.

"'Lo?"

Spot briefly stopped breathing, relishing the sound of Race's voice.

"Hey."

There was a swift intake of breath on the line before Race spoke. "I was wondering when you'd move your lazy ass enough to pick up the phone." He went on before Spot could retort. "How're the old British Isles?"

"They're fine. How's Manhattan?"

"It's Manhattan. What did you expect?"

Spot stifled an exasperated sigh. "Something a bit more descriptive, perhaps."

Race didn't even bother to stifle his. "Cold, wet, and dirty. Better?"

"I don't know why I even asked."

"That would make two of us."

Clenching his teeth on another sharp report, Spot ground out, "Maybe because I was trying to have a civil conversation with you. Not that it worked."

"I'm surprised you even tried. Aren't you through trying?" Race shot back.

"Obviously _not_, since I'm in London, and instead of going out on the town, I'm sitting in my hotel room, talking to you. Not that you would care."

"Clearly I care, or I wouldn't been spending my night sitting in my living room talking to you. I would have just hung up the phone and gone out," Race snapped back.

"Whatever. It's not like I asked you to."

"Don't make this about me. This is about you!"

"I knew you would find some way to make this my fault."

"I'm not the one who fled the country!"

"It's not like I had much of a choice, Tony! It's for my job. You know, that thing that provides food and shelter for your sorry ass?"

"Oh right, because I don't make _any_ money at all. And you would say 'provides food and shelter.' You _would_."

"Don't pick on me because I'm educated."

"It's just so easy, Sean. So easy."

"Well it would have to be, otherwise you couldn't do it!"

"Hey, I'm not the one who couldn't take a little argument. It's not like we're never going to fight! We'll get over ourselves and resolve things. But we can't do that if you're in another country!"

Spot was silent for a moment. "Pack your bags."

"What?!" Race yelped. "Hold up now... Stop being such an asshole and calm the fuck down, okay? This is _not_ something you want to joke about!"

"I'm not joking," Spot replied. "If you check your email, there should be a first class ticket to Heathrow Airport that leaves in less than two hours. Get your shit and get over here."

The other end of the phone was silent, and Spot prayed that Race had understood those few sentences and the e-ticket. They were as close as he could get to an apology and a promise that he would do better in the future.

Finally, after a few moments that seemed longer than lifetimes, Race sighed. "I hope you left me a suitcase..."

* * *

A/N: Well? Was it worth the ridiculous wait? Probably not. Will you forgive me and leave me a review? Please? 


	23. Walking in a Winter Wonderland

A/N: ANOTHER CHAPTER!!!! YES!!!! This one was actually supposed to be posted Christmas Eve, but you know me, nothing on time. So consequently, here it is, a week late. Sorry!

* * *

Spot was in something of a mood. It was Christmas Eve, and he was alone in the apartment. Race had left yesterday morning to spend the holiday with his family, and wouldn't be back for a few days - Higgins family tradition required the presence of the entire extended family, irregardless of the fact that this would have been Race and Spot's first Christmas in their own apartment. Spot felt so clichéd and stupid. A feeling he hadn't had since high school. Like a loser.

So now he was spending the holiday on his own, in the lonely apartment, curled up on the couch in the darkness. Or at least as dark as Manhattan ever got in December, what with the city lights augmented by so many strands of Christmas lights glaring in through the window. Every single channel was playing a holiday movie - even the Sci-fi network - so he'd been trying to read instead. But it was hard to keep from sinking into a bitter mood and losing interest in whatever novel he'd grabbed. Even thirty or so pages in, he still wasn't sure what it was even about.

And it was all Race's fault and his stupid family. He _knew _Spot didn't have a functional enough family to go home to - after all, Spot had spent nearly every break at school instead of trekking back to New York with the Higginses. But Race had gone, and Spot was stuck in the apartment. What was he supposed to do?

Stupid Christmas, and its stupid family values. Wasn't it originally about the coming of the Messiah and a bright star and the origin of Christianity? What did that have to do with Italian-Irish families convening for an exclusive weekend upstate?

Spot frowned and took another sip of his bourbon. But it wasn't really Race's fault, was it? It would have been totally unfair and selfish of Spot to ask him to stay and spend the holiday away from his family. But that didn't stop Spot from fuming, just the same. So, feeling like a real Scrooge, he chucked his book across the room and drained the last of his drink. Yes, he was in something of a mood.

It was then that he noticed soft strains of music drifting into the apartment - must be from the newlyweds down the hall. Wouldn't it be just like them to be having the perfect romantic Christm-

Spot frowned. No, that was too clear to be coming from through all those walls. He set his empty glass down and pulled himself into something resembling a sitting position to listen more clearly. It wasn't carolers, sounded more like a lone instrument - something in the brass fam…

Then he was moving towards the door - tripping over his abandoned book in the dark but still moving. Wrenched the door open…

And there was Anthony Higgins, playing _Walking in a Winter Wonderland_on his trumpet, because _I'll Be Home for Christmas _would have been too cliché. But that fact didn't matter because he was playing it right outside the door. He didn't look up when Spot appeared, but finished off the last line of the chorus before lowering his horn and picking up his battered duffel from where it had been leaning against his leg. Peered up at Spot through the dark fringe of his tousled hair. "Hey, Spot."

Not knowing what else to say, Spot blinked. "Hey, Race. Did… did you miss your train?"

Ruefully, Race shook his head. "Nah. I got there alright. I just…" he paused and ran his free hand through his hair. "Well, Christmas is about being with the ones you love, and my family was great and all, but the one I love was sitting alone in our apartment back in Manhattan."

Spot could feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes, but Sean Conlon never cried, so he forced them back down. Instead, he seized Race by the lapels of his coat and kissed him with all the emotion he would have cried. When they finally broke apart, panting hard, Spot ducked his head and grabbed Race's trumpet case. "Well, come in then."

So they shuffled inside the apartment, strangely awkward, considering they had been living in it for nearly three months now. Race set his trumpet on the stand by the couch while Spot took his bag and trumpet case to the bedroom.

When he came back into the room, Race was nowhere to be seen in the darkness. "Tony?"

Almost as if in answer, the Christmas tree in the corner by the fireplace suddenly flared to life, the twinkling lights seeming miraculously bright after so long in the dark. Race stood from where he'd been crouched by the outlet, letting the cord drop from his fingers. He grinned.

Suddenly, Spot's tongue ran off without any sort of conscious signal from his brain. "I'm… I'm glad you're here, Race." Slightly horrified, he tried to stop his wayward tongue, but it didn't seem to be controllable. "I missed you, and it's really not fair that your family gets you for the holidays and I don't. But that's not fair either, and now I feel guilty - but not so guilty I think you should go back to them, okay?" Worried, he glanced up as his boyfriend. "You _are _staying for Christmas, right?" Spot took a breath, then flushed. "Babbling aren't I?"

Race nodded, his grin expanding until his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Merry Christmas, Sean."

Spot's embarrassed and embarrassing blush disappeared behind a soft smile. "Merry Christmas, Tony."

They kissed gently, until Spot forgot that he'd been so miserable, until Race forgot that he'd left an irate family behind after spending less than an hour with them. There was no mistletoe, and Spot's breath tasted like alcohol, but it was Christmas just the same.

Eventually they broke apart, and Spot bent to kindle a fire in the grate while Race flopped onto the couch and cruised channels until he found 'White Christmas' on ABC. And once the fire was happily crackling away, Spot curled up next to Race, draping a proprietary arm around his shoulders.

"You know," Race murmured eventually, as Rosemary Clooney began to sing_Love, You Didn't Do Right By Me, _"you don't have to stay here for the holidays. You could come with me…"

Spot frowned. "But after you left them, won't your family hate me?"

With a chuckle, Race shifted so he was leaning against Spot. "Oh definitely. But imagine how much they'll love you if you bring me back." He paused to look up at his boyfriend. "Of course, we don't have to. If you'd rather stay here, I'll stay with you - you're the most important thing to me. You know that now, right?"

"Yeah, I do." Spot mumbled, grinding the heel of his right hand into his eye. "You're the most important thing to me, too. I want you to be happy. Do you want to go see your family?"

Race shrugged. "It would be nice, but only if you come with me. I mean, I've already _seen _them, technically. I just thought if you wanted to spend at least some of the holidays with family, you could use mine." He felt Spot tense against him, and immediately realized what that sounded like. "I didn't mean it like that! Not like I'm loaning you my family out of pity - don't be stupid. I just thought that maybe, this would be a good chance for you to get to know my whole family… since I'm figuring that you're going to have to do that eventually, right?"

Spot shifted again, but this time it was to look down at Race in an effort to read the other's expression. He started to say something, but then shook his head and kissed Race again. "We'll go down tomorrow night. That way you're still spending Christmas with them. Technically. Okay?" He was flushed again, but not with embarrassment.

"Okay." Race settled back against Spot to watch the rest of the movie.

* * *

A/N: Well? Please review, as I miss you all terribly... 


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